


Nidhana

by avani



Series: The Nidhana 'Verse [1]
Category: Baahubali (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gen, POV Child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2018-05-26
Packaged: 2018-11-20 16:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 52,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11339196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: Mahendra never has to go far to find his father.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nidhana, in Sanskrit, can mean either "having no property, poor; settling down, residence or place of residence, domicile, receptacle; conclusion, end, death, destruction, loss, annihilation; (in music) the concluding passage of a sāman; race, family; or the head of a family." (as per sanskritdictionary.com). The author, exhausted from typing all of that out, earnestly hopes that as the story goes on, it will become clear which, if any, meanings best serve the story.

Mahendra never has to go far to find his father. Sometimes Father is out in the quarries to check on the machinery there, and he shows Mahendra how the wheels and gears fit into each other to smash the rocks the workers bring down from the mountain. Sometimes Father is deciding an argument between some of the other villagers, and Mahendra can crawl into his lap and let the sound of his voice lull him to sleep. Some evenings, like today, Father is out at the edge of the mountain, looking out at the great golden palace below, and Mahendra always tries, on evenings like these, to take him by surprise. 

It’s not an easy task, but Mahendra has been attempting it as long as he can remember. He does his best to step lightly, to avoid snapping any twigs in his path, to breathe slowly and carefully, and it’s no use: at the last minute, without even looking back, Father stretches out an arm and scoops him up. 

He tries to sulk. It doesn’t last very long. No one can be angry at Father for long. Mahendra gives up and turns to look at the palace alongside Father. He can’t see why Father looks at it so much. It is a very large house, but Mahendra is sure their house is better. The palace doesn’t have Father’s laughter or Mother’s quick tongue and quicker smile or the bow Father carved for Mahendra’s most recent birthday. It doesn’t have the mango tree pockmarked by his parents’ archery practice, the books and blueprints tucked in their corner, or neighbors nearby who always have a toy or sweet or time enough to play with Mahendra whenever they visit. He tells Father this, and is rewarded by Father’s chuckle. 

“The King wouldn’t agree with you,” Father warns, but the corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. 

“He couldn’t,” Mahendra has to point out. “He lives there. He has to like it, even if it is boring.” Father says nothing, and Mahendra, guilty but not sure why, adds: “There are nice things there, too. There are elephants, Gopu says. And Grandfather lives there, when he’s not visiting us.” 

“Yes,” says Father. “And the Queen Mother Sivagami.” 

It’s strange. He sounds sad, but when Mahendra twists to look at him, Father is smiling. 

“Let’s go home, Mahendra,” Father tells him, lifting him so he is sitting on Father’s shoulders instead of in the crook of his arm, “before your mother takes it into her head to cook dinner.” 

He rides on Father’s shoulders all the way back to the village, which means he’s tall enough to pick flowers from all the ashoka trees that grow along the way. There’s too many for Mother, so Father stops at every house on the way, and Mahendra carefully leans down to hand a few to the lady of each home. They all bless him, and some of them even blush, and he feels very grown up. 

Mother isn’t there when they come home. Mahendra knows, because Father lets him down and Mahendra, impatient to give Mother her flowers, checks the kitchen and the main room and the goatpen before coming back outside to tell Father that there is no one there. Father doesn’t say anything, but his hand squeezes Mahendra’s shoulder. 

“Stay—“ Father begins, but from behind, they hear: “Mahendra?” 

Delighted, he runs forward. “These are for you,” he says in his very best grown up voice, just as he spoke to the other ladies, and solemnly hands her the ashoka flowers, her very favorite. As long as he can remember, either he or Father have always brought some home for her. 

And every time, just like today, Mother breathes, “Oh, Mahendra, they’re beautiful,” and kneels down so he can run forward into her arms. He smells turmeric and honey when she pulls him close; someone must have been hurt and needed her help elsewhere. It wasn’t anything to be worried about at all. 

“Was it a very bad wound?” he asks, and Mother, though she doesn’t seem surprised at the question at all, is slow to answer. 

“A snakebite,” she says finally, and she looks up at Father, “incurred when the workers were obeying the royal decree to re-open the southeast mines.” 

Father frowns. “Those were abandoned ten years ago. We were told that while there may be more gold to be found, that part of the mountain was so unstable that it wasn’t worth the risk.” 

“You weren’t misinformed. It’s fortunate that the mine itself didn’t collapse in on them when they brought out Seshu out after he was bitten.” Mother sniffs. “Though I’m sure his illustrious majesty had an excellent reason for sending them there in the first place.” 

“ _Devasena,_ ” says Father in that tone he uses when he feels he should disapprove but can’t quite manage it. Not that it means much; Father approves of everything Mother does, even when any other man wouldn’t, and everyone knows it. At least that’s what Mahendra’s uncle says, and he should know. Uncle has known Mother and Father for longer than Mahendra can remember, even before Mahendra was born, and he always adds, shaking his head, that they haven’t changed at all. He tries to sound disapproving, too, but he must mean it as little as Father does; he always smiles as he says it. 

Now, Mahendra’s stomach rumbles, though he tries to hide it, and Mother smiles down at him again as she stands. “My poor boy. Dinner’s already ready.” 

Mahendra manages to turn his groan into a cough, but Father clearly isn’t as good at hiding his horror, any more than he can hide his grin when Mother’s eyes narrow. 

“And,” she says deliberately, though he suspects she is really speaking to Father. “your Aunt Lakshmi prepared it and sent it for us, so there’s no need to look so worried.” That’s all right; if he strains his memory, he can remember when Aunt Lakshmi used to live with them and help take care of him, before she got married and moved to another house in the village. She has all the patience for cooking that Mother lacks, and doesn’t get called away more often than not in the middle of her preparation. 

He races inside the house just before Mother and Father, but Mother only has him set down his flowers before she bids him sit down to his studies while there’s enough sunlight to see the leaves of the book clearly. Mahendra scowls but obeys. No other boy in the village has to spend time reading such old books, but when Mahendra had tried arguing the point to his parents, Father had only shrugged and said that Gopu had to spend time helping his father while Mahendra was free to play; did Mahendra want to join his friend there instead? He’d considered it for a minute, but Gopu has always claimed the smithy was terribly dull,too. Muddling his way through confusing words might not be so boring in comparison. 

He squints at the first few words, frowning. In the kitchen, he can hear Mother and Father talking as they finish preparing dinner. 

“….A bad bite,” Mother is saying. “I was certain we’d lose the leg. I wanted to send him down to the physicians in the city, but of course they’ve all been summoned to the palace. Two I could understand, even three—but all of them?” 

“A man has a right to be worried at a time such as this,” Father says mildly. 

“And a king has a responsibility to make sure his subjects do not suffer because of his personal concerns,” retorts Mother. “Who knows what would have happened if—Mahendra? I can’t hear you.” 

With a sigh, Mahendra looks down at the book again and reads aloud: “ _Practice righteousness, not unrighteousness. Speak the truth, not an untruth. Look at what’s distant, not what’s near at hand. Look at the—the—_ “ 

“Highest,” Father supplies from the kitchen. 

“ _Look at the highest, not at what’s less than highest._ ” 

Fortunately, it’s not much longer before his parents decide he has read enough and call him to eat. Mahendra puts the book down gratefully and joins them on the veranda, where they always eat. From time to think their neighbors stop by, whether to pay their respects or to thank Mother or Father for something; one of them comes by to tell Mother that Seshu is recovering well, and her shoulders relax. In between these visits, Mahendra tells his parents about his day: 

“And _then_ Gopu told me if we went up, we would fall and break open our heads, and he didn’t want to go around with a broken-open head, so I told him I had fallen plenty of times and my head wasn’t broken at all. Then he told me that was because I was so hard-headed, and I told him he was a lily-livered coward, and he said he was going home. So I went to go find Father instead.” 

“Gopu wasn’t wrong,” Mother says sharply. “You know better than to climb on the machinery.” 

Mahendra flinches at her disappointment. “I only thought, if I could make it all the way up, I could see what’s on the other side of the mountain.” 

“Nothing worth the danger,” replies Father. “More mountains.” 

It seems he will have to do more climbing than he planned to satisfy his curiosity. “And past them?” 

“Kuntala, I suppose,” says Mother. 

The name is familiar, but it takes him an instant to place it. “That’s where Uncle lives, isn’t it? If it’s so close, why can’t he come see us more often? 

Mother and Father exchange looks. “It’s not so close as that,” Mother explains at last. “There are quite a few mountains in the way. Besides, your uncle is busy helping the King of Kuntala.” 

Mahendra frowns. “But you always say Elder Uncle and Aunt are busy at the palace there, too! Why does the King need all of them?” 

“It’s a difficult job, being King,” says Father, sounding amused. “I’m sure he appreciates all the help he can get.” 

“Maybe,” grumbles Mahendra and turns his attention back to his dinner. It really is wonderful; Aunt Lakshmi is a better cook than he remembers. He decides to bring her something nice tomorrow to say thank you, perhaps flowers or a pretty rock he finds abandoned in the quarries. Mother will help him think of something. And until then—“What’s Kuntala like?” he asks, taking another bite of food. 

Mother smiles. “Green,” she says, “and peaceful. They work farms there, not mines and quarries. The air is cool, even in the summers, and the sun shines more often than not.” 

Mahendra considers this. “That sounds nice. Can’t we go there someday?” 

Mother makes a noncommittal noise, and Mahendra rejoices. She hadn’t said _no_! 

“And then we could visit my uncles, too, even if they won’t come to us,” he adds happily. “But I’d miss Grandfather—we should take him along, too.” 

“Mahendra!” Mother is laughing. “Eat your dinner before you plan out all of our futures. Otherwise it’ll grow cold.” 

He obeys, but his heart is too full of the lure of Kuntala to say much more until dinner is over, and Father takes him to the field behind their house to teach him how to fight. It is the only thing Father is strict about: Father teaches the other boys and girls, too, if they want to learn, and doesn’t mind if they miss a lesson or two, but Mahendra has to practice every day. It must be because he’s Father’s son, he thinks. He doesn’t mind, though. This is his favorite part of the day. 

Father calls out different blows, and when Mahendra does his best to obey as quickly as he can, he always puts a hand out to test Mahendra’s strength. He doesn’t say anything else throughout, just watches Mahendra carefully, but at the end he smiles. “You’ve been practicing, Mahendra,” he says. “Well done.” 

That means Mahendra is free to bound forward and throw his arms around Father’s middle, and to laugh and laugh when Father flops onto the ground and announces he’s been overcome by his too-strong son. 

Mother comes out with their bows and quivers in time to catch that last, and she laughs too. “If so, then you’ve no one to blame but yourself.” 

Father sits up, still holding Mahendra. “I seem to remember you played some part in the process,” he says reproachfully. 

Mother only laughs again and hands Mahendra his bow. Father carved it and the arrows to go with it so they were exactly the right size, and only last week, after months of practicing under Mother’s keen eye, Mother finally allowed him to release his arrows instead of only nocking them and waiting for her appraisal. He scrambles to his feet and tries to pick out a target. There is not much to choose from: only the mango tree Mother uses for her poultices, and a few deer in a distance. Mother has impressed upon him that he’s never to raise arms at a living thing unless it poses a threat to himself or others, so that only leaves the mango tree. 

To his side, Mother and Father seem to have come to the same conclusion, except Father doesn’t seem as interested in trying to hit the target as he does making sure Mother doesn’t hit hers. She lowers her bow and the arrows and says something to Father Mahendra can’t hear; whatever it is, it can’t have helped much, because it just makes Father chuckle, pull her close, and start kissing her. 

Mahendra makes a face. As much as he loves his parents, they can be a terribly embarrassing burden to bear at times. Someone at least should try to bring some mangos down, however, and so he carefully takes aim for a cluster of three at the very bottom of the tree. He holds his elbow out of the way, just like Mother says, and trusts his instinct, just like Father advises, and looses his arrow. 

It meets its target, sending the mangos tumbling down, and Mahendra realizes that they will fall into the dirt, which seems an awful waste of good fruit. Only just in time, he looses another arrow meant to pin the mangos to the trunk of the tree; to his surprise, that one finds its mark as well. 

“Did any man have a better son?” he hears Father say, and turns to look at his parents. They’re not kissing any more —thank goodness!—but Father’s arm is still around Mother, and both of them beam at him. His chest swells with pride. 

They practice until night falls, and then for dessert they share the mangos, each bite all the sweeter to Mahendra because it was his shot that brought them down. Then Mother sends him off to wash before they lie down to sleep, Mahendra tucked between his parents, warm and safe. He can hear them talking about nothing in particular, and the sound of their voices lulls him into drowsiness. 

He’s very nearly asleep when the knock comes to the door. His parents both freeze before Father gets up and goes to the door. Mother stays with him; he can feel the tension of her body, but her hand continues gently stroking his hair. Mahendra forces himself to feign sleep and listens as closely as he possibly can. 

The voice at the door is one that he doesn’t recognize. “Forgive the intrusion, Lord—“ 

Father must recognize him, however; Mahendra can hear it in his voice. “There’s no need for such formality between us, Uday. You’ve known me since Kattappa was still clipping us both around the ears for laughing too much during our practice.” 

“Be that as it may, Lord—“ but there is a softening in the stranger’s voice. “I bring news from the palace.” 

“I see,” says Father. “Good news?” The stranger must nod, because Father continues: “And the Queen?” 

“Doing as well as can be expected.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” says Father. “Please convey my congratulations to the King. Will you take some water before you go?” 

The stranger clears his throat. “That is not all of my message,” he says, almost apologetically. “You, your wife, and your son are required to present yourselves before the court tomorrow by mid-morning.” Mahendra hears Mother’s breath catch; her hand above his hair clenches. 

“And this order comes from the King?” Father says, voice sharp. 

“No,” says the stranger. “From the Queen Mother Sivagami.” 

There is a long pause; Mahendra is fairly certain Mother is holding her breath. Without meaning to, he holds his breath along with her. 

Finally, Father says: “Then she already knows that if she orders it, I will obey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first official multi-chapter Baahubali fanfic, and despite my nervousness at having to write plot and action scenes instead of character studies (particular thanks to JalapenoLobster/perspicaciouslynameless for talking me through a future plot point!), I am cautiously optimistic about weekly/biweekly at worst updates! The next few chapters are written but still at beta; when I got this one back, I couldn't wait to share it with all of you. I hope you don't mind! Otherwise, the usual notes follow:  
> *Turmeric, honey, and mango are indeed all part of traditional Ayurvedic remedies; having established previously that Devasena knows basic wound care, I then had to quickly research what she might have available, and settled for what seemed the most logical possibilities.  
> *Lakshmi was mentioned very briefly in "Praveśaka" as one of Devasena's ladies-in-waiting. As "Dandalayya" establishes that they do remain with her even in exile, I had to ruthlessly write all of them off-screen. So for those wondering, out of the three of them, two eventually elected to return to Kuntala, and Lakshmi fell in love with a villager and married him two-three years before the start of this fic. Gopu, Seshu, and Uday are all characters I made up and who appear for the first time in this fic.  
> * The lines that Mahendra reads originate from the Gautama Dharmasutra (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gautama_Dharmasutra). After long hours of frantically researching what sort of text would be appropriate both for a young prince in this time period and the sort of ideals Amarendra and Devasena would want to teach their son, I finally settled for this verse which reminded me more of the general message of "Dhivara."  
> * The first few paragraphs were the first thing I wrote for this fandom immediately after returning from the movie. As a result, I'm sure it's clear that much of this chapter is just me wallowing in what-could-have-been, and I do apologize for the resulting plotlessness.


	2. Chapter 2

In the morning, Mother wakes him early. He pretends to be surprised when she tells him that they are going to the palace to visit Grandfather, although they’ve never been before; he doesn’t want her to know that he overheard Father’s conversation earlier. He wonders why the Queen Mother called for them specifically, or even how she knew who they were. He supposes it could be because of what Father always says, that a King or Queen should be as father or mother to their subjects and should know them as well as their own children; but he certainly doesn’t see anyone from the palace calling for Gopu or his father in the middle of the night. 

That is all the time he has to speculate before Mother descends upon him, making sure he’s washed behind his ears and trying in vain to smoothen his hair into some semblance of tidiness. “Mind your manners,” Mother says, voice taut. “Hold your head high, and no matter what happens, remember you are your father’s son.” 

Mahendra thinks it’s an awful lot of fuss to make over a visit to the palace, especially if she’s pretending it’s only a visit to Grandfather, but he tells her he will do as she says anyway. He isn’t sure if it’s worry or anger that’s driven the usual smile from Mother’s face, but he doesn’t like the thought of either. 

Mother disappears inside again to get ready, which leaves Father and Mahendra waiting on the veranda. Father doesn’t seem concerned, but then again, nothing ever concerns Father. He just sits down next to Mahendra and gives him a few quiet instructions on how to behave once they get to the palace, and, once Mahendra nods in understanding, ruffles his hair affectionately. Mother, returning at this points, huffs in exasperation to see all her hard work undone, but of course it’s too late to do anything about it now. 

They take the horses to the city, which is a surprise. There are only two horses in the entire village, and they belong to everyone, only to be used to go to the city quickly in cases of emergency—at least that’s what Mother says every time Mahendra asks if they can’t take one out for a ride, just for fun. But today doesn’t seem to have any of that urgency, as when Hari had broken his arm so badly that the bones showed and a physician had to be fetched. 

Still. Mahendra won’t complain if it means he gets to sit in front of Father while the horse canters down to the city. At first he thinks the ride is all too short: Mahendra spends the trip gazing with glee first at the mountains in the distance, then at the merchants and their stalls once they reach the city, and at the mendicants chanting their prayers by the temple. If he had a thousand eyes and a thousand days to take it all in, he doesn’t think he would be able to. 

But then they come to the outside of the palace, and there is an armor-clad figure waiting for them at the gates; all thoughts of the city and its many wonders are forgotten. “Grandfather!” Mahendra shrieks, trying to stand up in the saddle so he can see better. “Grandfather!” 

As they approach, Grandfather kneels on the ground and holds up his cupped hands for some reason. Father just laughs and says: “Take hold of this little scamp, Uncle, before he falls off trying to reach you.” He lifts up Mahendra to hand him to Grandfather, which is perhaps what Grandfather meant, except Mahendra’s grown much too big to fit inside Grandfather’s hands these days. He wonders if Grandfather’s gotten confused, since it’s been so long since he’s come to visit them. 

Which makes him wonder if Grandfather’s changed, too, in the last few months, but to his relief, there is very little difference: only a little more white in Grandfather’s beard. When he points this out, Grandfather only chuckles and says: “Another hair of mine turned white every time I missed you while I was away, Mahendra.” 

“I missed you, too,” Mahendra informs him, “even if my hair isn’t white. See? But I'm here now! This is where you live, isn’t it? Can we see your house? That’s where you keep that bird’s nest we found, isn’t it? Gopu didn’t believe me when I told him about it, but I told him you could find anything you wanted to.” Talk of Gopu reminds him: “And the elephants! Can we see the elephants, please? Gopu will die of jealousy when I tell him I saw them and he didn’t! You’ve seen them before, haven’t you, Grandfather? Can you show me where they are?” 

“Mahendra!” Mother is laughing as Father helps her down from her horse. “One question at a time. Show your grandfather some mercy.” 

“I don’t mind, Lady,” Grandfather assures her, before turning back to Mahendra. “Certainly we’ll see your elephants. And if this old man has any say in the matter, you’ll ride on one.” 

Not just to look upon, but to ride an elephant! Mahendra’s eyes widen, as does his smile. “I think you could see all the way to Kuntala from the top of an elephant,” he breathes. “Can we go see them now?” 

Grandfather shakes his head. “Not now, Mahendra.” He looks to Mother and Father. Mother isn’t laughing any more. “My orders were to bring you before her as soon as you had arrived.” 

So Grandfather leads them through a maze of corridors to where _she_ is. Or at least he has to lead Mahendra: he can’t seem to keep one hallway straight from the other, and it doesn’t help that every new view from the windows distracts him. Mother and Father don’t seem to need much instruction, or any at all; as they walk, they talk to Grandfather casually about the rebellion to the west, where Grandfather has been fighting on and off for the past seven years. 

“The islands of Malava won’t rest until they have their freedom. The rebellion may have been suppressed for now, but it will rise again, mark my words,” says Grandfather. “They burn with the outrage of their ancestors.” 

Father frowns. “Not without reason,” he says, “but I can’t agree with violence against the troops of Mahishmati. The men are only following the orders they’ve been given. They don’t deserve to be slaughtered like animals to send a message to the crown.” 

Mother looks as though she wants to say something Father will have to pretend to disapprove of, but she clearly changes her mind. “As I remember the islands,” she says instead, “they were perfectly willing to seek out a peaceful resolution to their grievances. What changed to cause so much difficulty, Kattappa? You’ve been among them for years; you must know.” 

Grandfather looks grim. “The exile of the one man they trusted to give them justice,” he says. “There’s no other reason they raised the banners of revolt so soon after—“ 

They reach a curtained doorway that doesn’t look particularly interesting, but Grandfather ducks through it. Mahendra goes to follow him, but Mother and Father both pull him back. “Not that way, Mahendra,” says Father. “Not for you.” 

Instead they have to stand before a set of great wooden doors at the end of another long corridor to be let in. Apparently only two guardsmen can open them, which seems silly. The doors must be heavy, but not _that_ heavy; Mahendra is sure that he, or at least Father, could manage to open them easily. And this, it seems, means the poor guardsmen have to stand there all day, waiting to let people in. Mahendra is sure there must be better things for them to do. Mahendra opens his mouth to offer to help so they could take some rest, but Father puts a hand on his shoulder in silent warning. 

Mother, who usually points out silliness even before Mahendra does, doesn’t say anything about the guardsmen because she isn’t paying attention. She is rubbing her wrists, apparently unconsciously, and frowning at nothing in particular. Father takes her hand with his free one; she only gives him a tight smile in return. But her shoulders relax, and she isn’t standing so unnaturally straight anymore, so Mahendra guesses she must be feeling better. 

The guardsmen open the doors at last, and Mahendra takes one last opportunity to feel sorry for them before his attention is taken up by the room they enter. It’s enormous: Mahendra thinks the entire village could fit inside. The village and the mountain, too, it must be that high! He supposes it needs to be so large, though, because there’s enough people inside to fill up an entire village: mostly men, mostly old. Some of them lounge in enormous chairs, but they won’t share with others who have to stand in the back. They have very bad manners, Mahendra thinks, because they stare as though they’ve never seen a family before. What’s more, they whisper: over and over again, Mahendra hears “Baahubali,” which is Father’s name and Mahendra’s name, too, as though he can’t overhear them. Mother needn’t have worried so much about Mahendra’s behavior when no one else here seems to know how to comport themselves. 

But maybe Mother and Father don’t realize. Mother walks proud and erect, and Father looks just as much at his ease as though they were only strolling through the village. Mahendra is quietly pleased to have them walk on either side of him, a shield from the curious gazes and whispered questions. 

As they approach the other end of the room, Mahendra can make out the people who sit and stand on the dais between two enormous statues of stone soldiers. Before anyone else, he sees Grandfather, standing tall and solemn: for an instant he wants to wave, but knows that would be all wrong. He smiles instead, as wide as he can, and doesn’t mind that Grandfather’s expression doesn’t change at all. Grandfather’s smiling back on the inside, he knows. 

Some steps above Grandfather are three thrones: two of stone that look built into the hall, and one, much flimsier, made of wood and looking rather like it doesn’t belong. A man and a woman sit in either of the stone thrones, both surrounded by a single attendant; in the wooden throne, awkwardly placed between the other two and surrounded by a great many ladies, sits a woman who seems rather younger than either of them. That must be Queen Varuni, Mahendra realizes; everyone has heard of how she’s the loveliest woman in the entire world. Seeing her now, though, Mahendra isn’t sure he agrees: Queen Varuni is pretty enough, but very pale, and looks as though the only thing she is thinking is how much she’d rather retire to her bed to rest than spend another moment in this assembly. Some of the rude men watching seem to have come to the same conclusion—at least if they look from Queen Varuni to Mother and back again before whispering some more is any indication. 

Above this unlikely trio, another flight of stairs leads up to where King Bhallaladeva sits. Mahendra considers him curiously: all the soldiers and government officials who come through their village always proclaim that King Bhallaladeva is the strongest man in the entire kingdom, undefeated in battle, and the finest ruler Mahishmati could desire. But Mother doesn’t think much of him, which means Mahendra doesn’t, either. He’s never known Mother to be wrong about anything, ever. 

As they draw closer, Mahendra is startled to see the King studying him with just as much interest. It’s difficult to make out much of the King’s expression from this distance, and given his beard, but Mahendra can see how he leans forward, placing an elbow on his knee. If he’s trying to appear at his ease, and Mahendra suspects he is, he’s not doing a very good job of it. 

They come to a stop, and Father folds his hands and says: “Mother,” bowing his head towards one of the stone thrones. He lifts his head, and in a voice that sounds just as pleasant but isn’t, adds: “Your Majesty.” 

“Baahu!” booms the King in return. “This is your son?” 

“He is.” Mahendra can hear the smile in Father’s voice as he gives Mahendra’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze and gently pushes him forward. It is the only thing, along with Mother’s earlier admonition, that gives him courage. 

Mahendra knows what he should say; Father made sure of that when they had spoken before. But that doesn’t mean his voice doesn’t want to shake a little as he stands before everyone in the hall and speaks, loudly so everyone can hear, because Father said he should be proud of everything the following words signified: “My name is Mahendra Baahubali, the son of Amarendra Baahubali and his wife Devasena, and a son of Mahishmati. I—“ He looks back at the stone thrones on their dais, and, trusting his instincts haven’t misled him, approaches the one to the left, occupied by the older woman. Her eyes are very wide; she hasn’t looked away from him since he entered the hall, either. 

“Are you the Queen Mother Sivagami?” he asks, and he hopes it’s all right to lower his voice, because it’s very awkward, shouting so that his voice echoes. He can’t see how the King can bear it, day in and day out. 

The lady nods. 

Mahendra relaxes. “Oh good,” he says, and smiles at her. “My father told me I should pay my respects to you before anyone else,” he tells her, and reaches to touch her feet. “I’m glad I didn’t make a mistake.” 

She is still looking at him as though seeing a ghost, and Mahendra is just about to conclude that he did, in fact, make a mistake he hadn’t even realized, when she says: “You look very much like your father.” 

Was that all? “Everyone tells me that,” he confides. “Except Father. Father says I was born with Mother’s spirit.” 

Queen Mother Sivagami doesn’t seem as charmed by this as people usually are, but Mahendra thinks it’s part of being royalty. Likely that meant you had to look grim and serious all the time, as do the people who sit on the dais, and never laugh or smile like he and his parents can. It is something of a pity. Mahendra struggles to think of something to cheer her up and settles for voicing a thought that’s just occurred to him: “My father called you ‘Mother,’” he says. 

“He did,” confirms the Queen Mother. 

“Does that mean that you are my grandmother?” 

Apparently being royal does not mean your eyes cannot grow moist. Her voice is strong, however, when she answers: “I am.” 

Mahendra, emboldened, comes closer so he can lean on the armrest of her throne. To think he had worried so about it, when all it meant was that he was to meet his grandmother! Strange, perhaps, that she had never come to visit them before, but it was a very long way from here to their house, and possibly she actually had old bones that wouldn’t let her move, unlike Grandfather, who just complained about them. “I wish I’d known we were coming to see you,” Mahendra tells her. “Did you know I have a bow now? Father made it for me. I would have brought it to show you. Do you like to shoot, Grandmother? I can show you how, if you’d like. And,” he adds slyly, “what are your feelings about elephants?” 

Behind him, he hears the rumble of Grandfather’s chuckle—and even Father’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, while the corners of Mother’s mouth tilt up. He can’t see what’s so funny. Grandmother remains dignified, however, except he can hear the amusement in her voice when she replies: “To date we have not enjoyed the most cordial of relations,” she says. “But that could very well change in the days to come.” 

“Good,” says Mahendra, and is just about to propose they leave this dreadful hall behind and go to wherever they keep the elephants when the King interrupts: “And you?” 

He’s looking down at Father, except Father doesn’t seem intimidated at all. He only raises his eyebrows and drawls: “I did not think seven years were so long that you would forget me, Your Majesty.” 

“Not you.” The King’s dark eyes narrow. “Never you, no matter how many years go by. But what I ordered you here to witness is—“ 

“How would you like to stay in the palace with me, Mahendra?” 

Mahendra, watching the King with horrified fascination, takes a minute to realize that it’s Grandmother speaking over him. He didn’t know people were allowed to do that to the King. Apparently no one knew that, either, because the hall goes silent. The hush lasts so long Mahendra finds himself missing the whispers. At least they were better than knowing that everyone was waiting to hear what he would say next. It’s not really a choice at all: live in this palace, with its confusing corridors, its staring spectators, its unsmiling faces? 

“Mother—“ says Father again, and Grandmother holds up a hand to silence him. 

“You could have anything you please,” she says, a strange intensity to her voice. “Fine clothes, rich food, all the weapons a boy your age could want—even a herd of elephants to call your own if you so choose. Why, even your father could come visit you every few months.” 

Mahendra stares at her, aghast. He hadn’t even considered that she wouldn’t mean his parents to come, too. He tries to find the words to say no, but it is of no use. He is utterly paralyzed by that she will raise that hand of hers again, and he won’t be able to refuse, and he’ll be trapped with her forever, away from Mother and Father forever. His breath hitches into the beginnings of a sob, but thankfully no one hears it, because at the moment, Mother’s voice comes cutting through the silence, as sharp and as cold as the tip of one of her arrows. 

“You would separate a child from his parents, without asking their consent first? Over all these years, you haven’t learned even that much courtesy?” 

Grandmother’s hands tighten on her throne. “I would not punish an innocent for the mistakes his parents committed before he drew his first breath. The laws of the kingdom decree that they must suffer the punishment for their crime, but require no such sacrifice from him. The education, the culture, the power he would be able to claim in the palace—you must agree it is the best possible life for him.” 

“A lotus might rise up from the midst of muck,” snaps Mother, “but it is too much to expect such a miracle to happen once again.” 

Grandmother stands up. Mahendra stumbles backwards, but she doesn’t notice; her anger is all for Mother. “You would deprive him of the place that belongs to him by right,” she accuses, “only out of spite.” 

“It is a mother’s right to determine where her son belongs, be it in the palace or in the humblest of cottages,” Mother retorts. “You of all people, I should think, would understand that.” 

“How dare—“ Grandmother starts to say when Mahendra interrupts. It is, he thinks, the bravest thing he has ever done. “Please,” he says, and isn’t even ashamed of how small and frightened his voice sounds, “I want to go with my mother.” 

Grandmother stares at him for a minute and slumps onto her throne once more, seeming smaller now that the anger has left her. Mahendra supposes he should be relieved, but mostly he feels sad when he looks at her. He didn’t think he spoke very loudly, but the spectators must have overheard somehow; the hall echoes with the roar of conversation once more, so much so that the King has to strike his foot on the ground to command silence once more. 

“As I was saying,” announces the King, as though the last few terrible moments had never been, “you were summoned here to bear witness to my son.” 

He gestures with his arm, and one the ladies clustered around the wooden throne comes forward with a bundle of golden silk, which, unwrapped, turns out to be a baby. Mahendra has seen plenty of babies before, and he knows they are uniformly ugly. This one is no exception, red-faced and wrinkled, but he also knows you never share that fact with their mothers, who all go temporarily blind until their children grow up a bit. So he turns to Queen Varuni, because no one else is doing so, and says as politely as he can, “He’s very handsome.” 

She startles at that, and gives him a crooked smile. It renders her less beautiful and more human. 

Below, Father is telling the King, in much the same tones: “My congratulations,” as though he hadn’t already conveyed the same message through the soldier Uday who had visited them. The King must have a bad memory, despite what he’d claimed earlier, on top of all his other faults. 

The King ignores this and instead commands, “And with it, Baahu, I demand your oath of allegiance to my son, Bhadra, heir to Mahishmati—“ 

“No,” says Grandmother. “ _One_ of the heirs to Mahishmati.” 

“Mother!” exclaim Father and the King together, both in the same unhappy tones, but she continues: “Until such time as their worth becomes apparent, both heirs will share an equal right to the throne. Such is my word—and my word is the law.” 

The hall erupts with whispers again, except this time it’s even worse, because everyone is staring at Mahendra. He’s not sure why or what Grandmother meant in the first place, but whatever it is, it’s made the King’s face go dark with anger, Queen Varuni’s expression flatten into vacancy once more, and more than one of the rude spectators' smiles widen in a way Mahendra doesn’t like. In particular, the old man who sits across from Grandmother clenches the arm that's not hidden by his drape into a fist. 

Mahendra staggers backwards, down the stairs, to the very bottom of the dais, until he stumbles against Mother and Father. Mother is still pale with anger, and Father looks—for the first time Mahendra can remember—grim. His stomach churns, even as Father calmly bids the court and Grandmother good-bye, even as Father picks Mahendra up in his arms, but especially as Mahendra watches the lost, heartbroken look in Grandmother’s eyes as the three of them leave the hall. 

Mahendra wishes they had just gone to see the elephants instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In at the very last minute to meet my self-imposed weekly deadline! I do apologize to those who have been waiting ; largely the delay was due to the fact that it was pointed out to me that this chapter, as originally, was just too long and consequently needed to be split into two: the one you see here and the one to be posted next week.  
> (To put it into perspective, this chapter by itself was longer than "Āmukha," and almost as long as "Praveśaka," and plus there was a logical stopping point here that didn't work as well as part of a larger chapter.) The other part of the delay was because I wanted to get this particular confrontation quite right -- I welcome any thoughts, positive or negative, about whether I did all sides justice. I must confess to a renewed admiration for the screenwriters: the big Mahishmati throne room scenes are quite difficult to write!
> 
> Other notes as follows:  
> * The Malava islands are described as forming the western boundary of Mahishmati during Bhallaladeva's coronation. I do know there's a story there about Amarendra and Devasena's involvement with the islands, and that this played a part in Amarendra being removed from his position as commander-in-chief in my head canon, but it hasn't quite made itself clear to me yet. The rebellion, while definitely complete for the purposes of this story, is part of my explanation for why Bhallaladeva has been distracted from pursuing his vendetta against Amarendra; the other part should be clear by the next chapter.  
> *Varuni is also a character who exists in canon, but was mentioned only once! She is one of the princesses who Sivagami considers for Amarendra and ultimately rejects because she has no strength of character in her gaze. I suspect Bhallaladeva married her largely to be able to call himself husband to the so-called most beautiful woman in the world, rather than because of any affection, particularly after his disappointment with regards to Devasena. In fairness to poor Queen Varuni here, she is only one day post-childbirth and so has very little interest in having to sit through a public appearance just so her husband can show off his newborn son. I'm not entirely sure I blame her.
> 
> * Finally, the age difference between Mahendra and Bhadra is actually the same one I see in canon: approximately seven years or so. Bhadra, despite his viciousness, has the body language and immaturity of someone in his late teens versus Mahendra in his mid-twenties.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun has almost set when they return. The village looks welcoming and familiar, all the more in comparison to the palace. Mahendra has spent all the way back watching for the first sign of the cottages in the distance, not even looking up when Father pointed out a landmark along the way. If he closes his eyes and focuses only on the scent of Mother’s beloved ashoka blossoms, it might have only been an ordinary day. 

Part of him wants to run and hide inside their house as soon as they approach it, but a larger part doesn’t want to be away from Mother and Father. Besides, hiding is something only cowards do, and Mahendra knows he’d be rather be anything else in the world than a coward. So he forces himself to stay by Father’s side as he and Mother walk the horses in silence before leading them to the stables to feed, water, and untack them. 

It all seems to take a terribly long time. Mahendra, who vaguely thinks the inside of a stall might have been quite interesting at another time, can’t seem to stop shifting his weight from foot to foot and listening for the sounds of approaching soldiers. That is what angry Kings and Queen Mothers send, after all, and he isn’t really sure what happens after that, because the stories never really specify what the soldiers intend, instead skipping to how the hero manages to fight off all the hordes alone with his sword. Which is all very well as far as a tale Gopu’s grandmother is telling, but not at all helpful for real life. Mahendra has a sinking feeling it involves more pronouncements that seem important but incomprehensible and more whispers directed at him. 

Finally, finally, the horses are settled and they can go home. Once the door is closed, Mahendra can breathe more easily, but his respite isn’t to last long. “Mahendra,” says Mother, her voice strained, “why don’t you go and play outside until dinner is ready?” 

“But—but—my studies!” exclaims Mahendra, not a little desperately. “It’s almost sundown. I have to finish my reading before the sun goes down.” 

“One day of missing your lessons won’t do any harm,” Mother says, and forces a smile. “Why don’t you go tell Gopu all about the palace?” 

Mahendra can’t think of anything he’d like to do less. As far as he can see, actually being at the palace had been bad enough without having to go over the whole sorry business with Gopu all over again. And all without being able to brag about even the barest glimpse of an elephant! Gopu would just laugh, and then he would have to say something rude back, and they’d get into another argument and it would be something else that had gone wrong today. 

He looks to Father, his last hope, but all Father says is: “Go play, Mahendra,” with an encouraging nod. “It’ll be all right.” 

If Father says it will be all right, it will be. Father never lies. Mahendra opens the door and goes outside before his courage can fail him. He pauses at the veranda, breaths coming shallow once more. But the moment passes, and no soldiers come thundering up to steal him away to Grandmother, and his mind clears. 

Really, all Mother had originally wanted him to do —and all Father had told him to do—was to go and play outside, where he was. There is no reason he can’t play immediately behind the house; and if that is also close enough that Mother and Father can hear if anything happened, well, that is just sheer good luck. 

Except: “How _dare_ she?” comes Mother’s voice, and Mahendra stills once again. He can’t remember ever hearing Mother so angry: not when he accidentally opened the goatpen so the goats stampeded to freedom around him; not when he was climbing on top of Murali’s cottage and put too much weight on the wrong place so that the entire roof came crashing down. 

Father sighs. “She meant well, I believe,” he says. “In her mind, she was seeing justice done.” 

“And if that should strengthen her claim that the future heir must be raised in the palace, so much the better,” Mother retorts icily. “As though the self-same plan worked so well the last time it was proposed!” 

“It was intended to give the country the King best suited for the responsibility.” 

Mother scoffs. “If that was indeed her intention, then the man currently on the throne would be very different. I know that. _You_ know that. The Queen Mother knows that. And worst of all, Bhallaladeva knows that.” 

“Devasena—“ 

“Don’t!” Mother sounds no less angry; her voice shakes with it. “Seven years ago, we had nothing, and that wasn’t enough to satisfy him. If Kumar Varma hadn’t come to you with what he’d overheard and been told, who knows what Bhallaladeva and his father would have intended for him? For us?” 

“Devasena—“ 

“But what does that matter, in the face of Queen Mother Sivagami’s need for fair play? That same need, I might add, which remained dormant for seven years until she saw an opportunity to turn it into yet another foolish contest that’ll be determined not by merit, but by which candidate will give her what she wants.” Mother takes a deep breath and continues, in a voice so brittle it might shatter: “Which, in this case, is to take him away from me. Both of you, if she can manage it.” 

Mahendra’s chest goes tight again with terror. But Father is as assured as ever when he replies: “And do you think either of us would leave you?” 

A pause; when Mother speaks again, her voice is muffled. “Even allowing that she did mean well—can’t she see that by her side sits a man who sank to such depths to secure his own throne. What wouldn’t such a man do for the sake of his son?” She sucks in a breath, then, and says rather more clearly: “Mahendra!” 

Mahendra’s first confused thought is that somehow, she knows he’s standing here listening instead of doing as she says. He backs away guiltily and sidles to the front of the house, wondering if it would be easier to find Gopu anyway, or to pretend he had been watching the older children play _gili-danda_ the whole time. He's so busy deliberating that the hand on his shoulder takes him entirely by surprise. But it's all right, it's all right; it's only Father.

"If you've time enough to eavesdrop," Father tells him evenly, "you've time enough to practice." 

Mahendra doesn't do a very good job. He knows this without having to ask: frustration and fear send his blows flying wildly, but Father doesn't say anything, only frowns. 

At last Mahendra gives up and settles on the ground. He doesn't look up. He doesn't want to meet Father's gaze and know for sure how badly Mahendra has let him down.

But then: "Forgive me," says Father. 

It is so unexpected--so much what Mahendra should say instead--that he can't think of any possible response. Mahendra's the one who couldn't pay enough attention to his lessons. Mahendra's the one who must have done something wrong at the palace. 

Father closes his eyes; for the first time that Mahendra can remember, he looks tired. "What happened today left you confused and frightened --perhaps because I didn't prepare you enough, perhaps because I should never have agreed to bring you in the first place. Either way the fault was mine. I am sorry for that." 

Mahendra supposes he should say something about how it's all right, the way Father always does when Mahendra says he's sorry. Instead he finds himself replying: "Could I ask you a question?" 

Father considers. "Anything within my power to answer. You deserve that much." 

"Will Grandmother--you do know her, don't you? Because she's your mother?" 

"Not by blood," says Father carefully, and Mahendra bites back an impatient huff. Of course he knows _that_! That's why Father is Father and the King is the King. "But she raised me, yes." 

So Father would have an answer to the question he means to ask. "Will Grandmother take me away from you?" His voice cracks in the middle of saying this, like a baby's, and Mahendra wants to hide his face for shame. 

Father doesn't seem to notice, though. Instead he puts his hands on Mahendra's shoulders. His gaze is solemn. "Not while I have breath in my body," he promises, and Mahendra believes him. Father never lies. 

The world seems warmer and brighter after that, somehow. Mahendra curls up besides Father, satisfied, so close that when Father starts to chuckle, Mahendra can feel it. 

"That's it, then? No more questions?" 

The question that Father's already answered is the only one that matters, but if Father really wants to hear another, Mahendra can oblige him."Would it be difficult to keep a pet elephant here, like we do the horses and the goats?" 

"Very," confirms Father. "They can eat three men's weight in food all in one day." 

"Even the baby ones?" 

"The baby ones grow up sooner or later. Besides, wouldn't they want to stay with their mothers rather than here with you?" 

Thwarted, Mahendra mutters: "In Kuntala, I wager they have elephants _everywhere_." 

Father laughs outright. "They do not. Elephants don't care for the mountains, as a rule." 

A new blow, to have to choose between elephants and Kuntala! Finally, grudgingly, Mahendra decides, "I still want to visit Kuntala. Even if they have no elephants." 

"Someday." Father pulls him to his feet. "But for now, dinner." 

As they go inside, Father adds: "One more thing I would ask of you, Mahendra. For now, don't go anywhere without telling me or your mother. Even if it's nearby, or your friends are with you. And if anything frightens you, anything at all, you are to tell us at once. Do you understand?" 

Before today, Mahendra would have said that nothing frightened him, least of all anything inside their village. Now he knows better. He nods.

And really, all that means is that in the mornings, when Father heads off to the quarries, Mahendra can stay with Mother as she goes about her work without having to worry about getting in the way. 

They settle into a comfortable routine. In the mornings Mahendra helps Mother put things away and watches as she sharpens Father's sword and her own. She shows him how to tend to bowstrings and makes sure he knows how to make sure his arrows are properly fletched. Once he makes the mistake of trying to take care of the dusting for her, but it only ends with Mahendra surrounded by a fine gray cloud and sneezing uncontrollably. Mother isn't angry at all, though he suspects he's made the mess worse; she only wipes his nose clean so she can kiss it and calls him her darling boy. 

Sometimes she takes him to gather the bark, leaves, and flowers she uses in her medicines. Mahendra can't see how anyone can keep them all straight and remember all of them. Mother laughs and says where she comes from -- Kuntala, he knows now--everyone knows such things. In fact, most know far more than her: Mahendra's aunt, for example, and a physician knows even more than either of them. What's more, in Kuntala there are even more herbs and flowers than grow here. Enough is enough, Mahendra decides; one day, Mother would simply have to show all him all the new plants found in Kuntala herself. 

Although Mother claims she doesn't know very much about healing, no one else seems to think so. Most days Mother is called at least once to look at a wound or sew up a nasty cut or see if there's anything to be done for a fever. Mahendra likes going with her during those times, especially when she lets him carry her bundle and open it up to take the exact poultice she needs to place on Seshu's healing snakebite or Charu's recent gash. He stands a little straighter when both Mother and her patients thank him for his help. 

In the evenings, before Father comes home, they tend to the goats. Mahendra loves the goats. Most of them are only about as old as he is, but because goats are strange about their years, they are wizened grandparents already. They love him nonetheless. They always greet him with a friendly bleat whenever he approaches the pen, and don't even mind that it takes him so much longer to milk them than it does Mother.

On one such evening, seven days or so since their visit to the palace, that Mahendra and Mother come back from the goatpen, both carrying buckets of mlik, to find someone standing just outside the house. 

“…and we’ll leave the rest for your father to churn when he comes back home,” Mother is saying, and then, in quite another voice: “Kattappa? Have you been waiting very long?” 

Grandfather bows his head. “Lady Devasena,” he says. “My greetings.” 

“Grandfather!” Mahendra beams, almost letting the milk in his bucket splash out in his excitement to run to Grandfather’s side. It’s much nicer seeing him here instead of at the palace; for one thing, Grandfather lets himself smile more. “I was helping Mother with the milking, see?” 

“I see,” Grandfather rumbles. “It seems you did a fine job.” 

“Come inside and have something to eat,” says Mother, and, before Grandfather can insist that there’s really no need, like he always does, tells Mahendra: “Go and bring some water for your grandfather, Mahendra. And do you remember where the berries from last night are kept? Bring those, too.” 

Mahendra makes sure to pick out the best berries out of those remaining for Grandfather. Grandfather says he’s not hungry some more when Mahendra approaches with them, but this is another thing he always does. Mahendra is used to it by now, just as he’s used to Grandfather saying that it’s not fitting if he eats while they do not. That means he and Mother have to take one berry each, just to make Grandfather feel better, and then, once that’s over, Mother sits back and asks: “What brings you here, Kattappa?” 

“News, Lady,” and as Mother’s eyes flicker to where Father’s and her swords are kept, he adds, “news that can wait. First this old fool must beg your forgiveness.” 

“Kattappa—“ 

“I had thought—“ Grandfather breaks off and continues, “I had hoped—the Queen Mother always listened to the stories I told her with the greatest interest. I believed if she only looked on Mahendra’s face herself once, then…” 

Mother smiles. “You weren’t wrong,” she says kindly. “And it was meant for the best.” 

“If I had known,” Grandfather tells her, “I would never have encouraged it. Forgive me my blunder, Lady?” 

“I will not,” Mother says firmly, “as there’s nothing to forgive. Now,” she goes on, “if you wish to make amends to Mahendra, I daresay telling him another one of your stories should be more than sufficient. Which one do you want to hear, Mahendra?” 

So it is that when Father comes home, Mahendra doesn’t even notice, busy as he is wondering what will happen next as the Queen walks closer to the path of the rampaging elephant. It isn’t until he hears: “I thought I heard your voice droning on outside, Uncle! What story are you boring my son with today?” and Father sits down next to Grandfather that Mahendra looks up. 

“He wasn’t boring me at all,” Mahendra says eagerly. “There was a festival, and the Queen had to walk all the way to the farthest-away temple with coals on her head, except then there was a mad elephant, and—“ 

Father makes a face. “That tired old tale? Your stories have gotten worse over the years, old man.” 

Grandfather opens his mouth and looks likely to protest, but before he can, Mother says: “Kattappa came all this way with news.” 

Both Mother and Father look at Grandfather expectantly, and Grandfather’s face goes serious again. 

”Firstly, the King has decreed that he is concerned about the security of the outlying villages. As a result, and as the end to all current hostilities with the Malawa Islands afford him greater manpower to use, he intends to send a patrol to be housed in each village outside the protection of the city gates.” 

Father and Mother share a long look before Father replies. “We had expected something of the sort, Uncle. Surely it won’t make that much of a difference.“ 

”The patrol is to be assigned not from the army, but from Bhallaladeva’s personal guard,” and whatever that means, it makes Mother draw in a sharp breath. 

”And when is this plan to be enacted?” she asks. 

”Two weeks’ time, Lady,” says Grandfather. “As soon as the King can hand-select those men who would best fit the position he has in mind. And secondly,” Grandfather clears his throat. “Secondly, a message came through the Queen Mother’s spies of an attack on one of our neighbors. It was—incomplete, but the loyalty of the man who brought it was beyond question while he lived. And above all, he was certain that the attack was imminent, though he was unable to tell me from where it might arise before it was too late. 

“Therefore you can see that it is,” continues Grandfather, “a matter of some sensitivity. The message might be better delivered in person than entrusted to paper or less reliable hands. I could think of none better than yours and the Lady Devasena.” 

“Uncle,” says Father, exasperated. “You don’t propose that we travel now, of all times?” 

“I do,” says Grandfather, “when the country in question is Kuntala.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there you have it: still no elephants, but Mahendra will get to at least see one of his wishes fulfilled! (I know, I know, you all want elephants before the end regardless ;) The usual notes, otherwise:
> 
> *So there you have the point of divergence from canon: namely, that in this universe, Kumar Varma came to Amarendra after speaking with Bijjaladeva (and Amarendra, unsurprisingly, said, "Bijjaladeva said he was concerned about my well-being in the slightest bit? Trap, no question about it."), which meant Kumar Varma wasn't framed and killed in the assassination attempt, Sivagami had no reason to order Amarendra's death, which meant he survived at least until Mahendra's birth, and by the time Bijjaladeva and Bhallaladeva could regroup and come up with another plan, the Malawa Islands had announced their rebellion, taking up all their attention. 
> 
> * _Gili-danda_ : a classic children's game played with two sticks. Very similar to cricket. 
> 
> *Elephants can eat up to 600 lbs/~275 kg a day according to the website of the International Elephant Foundation, though it seems a more typical amount is 300 lbs/~135 kg per day. Still, I think a bit of exaggeration is excusable when trying to talk your child out of a pet elephant. 
> 
> * There's no particular relation between Kuntala and a greater knowledge of herbs in canon, other than Avantika apparently knowing at a glance what sort of flowers can instantly and harmlessly cause sleep. However, it seems far more verdant than Mahishmati, and I wouldn't be surprised if that did lead them to being more aware of plant life than the more urban people of Mahishmati. 
> 
> *Out-of-universe, the specific story Kattappa tells is because I liked the idea of him getting to tell another version of Mahendra the same story that starts off BB2 under less tragic circumstances. In-universe, Mahendra asked for a story about elephants, and Kattappa simply didn't have that many to choose from!


	4. Chapter 4

Traveling to Kuntala involves less climbing than Mahendra expects. It turns out the easiest way to travel is to go up the river by boat, which is all right but not as satisfying as the thought of making it all the way to the very top of the mountain. But Father says it’s the quickest way, and the sooner they reach Kuntala, the sooner they can see his uncles. 

It doesn’t take Mahendra long at all to overcome his disappointment, hardly longer than the time it takes him to adjust to the sway of the ship under his feet. The sailors are all very friendly to him. They let him take a turn at the oars—more than one, actually—and nothing makes Mahendra feel more worthy than when he’s allowed to man his own oar while the usual rower takes a brief rest. Then they give him a chance to beat the drum that determines the rhythm of the rowers’ strokes, and that is fun, too, but best of all is when he gets to crawl up to the crow’s nest and look all around. 

Mother was right, as always; from his vantage point, all he can see is more green and growing things than he’s ever seen before in his life. Great stone arches stretch precariously over his head from one side of the river to the other. When Mahendra wonders aloud who built them, Mother explains that they were weren’t created by human hands but by the sheer power of the river to chip away at rock over centuries. Mahendra marvels all the more: he always knew people created statues and fine buildings, but to think the river was an craftswoman, too! A bit slow about it, but that was all right; likely she forgot that not everyone was as long-lived as she. 

The air grows cooler and damper the closer they come to Kuntala, just as Mother described. Father pulls on his coat and makes sure Mahendra wears one, too, but neither Mother nor the sailors seem to notice. He thinks they must all be used to it, which is a strange thought itself. He’s never thought of home as being too warm or uncomfortable for anyone; it just _is_. But the thought that the sailors who were so kind to him, or worse, Mother, might find it so is unpleasant. 

Now, in the little boat that has to row them to shore for some reason, Mahendra decides he won’t worry about that anymore. He is rather sorry the voyage has to end. He hopes they can go on the same ship again when it’s time to go home, with the same kind captain and kind crew. He shifts closer to the bow where Mother and Father are sitting to make sure they can, but as he approaches, Mother is already deep in discussion with the captain. She’s frowning, but it can’t be that serious; Father, beside her, only looks faintly amused. 

“Absolutely not, young—“ the captain blusters and falls silent when Mother holds up her hand. Mahendra is suddenly reminded forcibly of Grandmother doing the same thing days ago. 

But Mother smiles wryly, and says, “Hardly that anymore,” and sounds so much like herself that Mahendra relaxes. She’s correct, after all; it’s a bit silly to call her a young lady when she’s a grown-up mother, obviously. 

“What’s wrong?” he whispers to Father. 

“The captain won’t accept payment,” says Father, sounding unsurprised, “not from your mother.” 

Kuntalans must all be very kind people, Mahendra concludes, if they are this loyal to fellow countrymen and -women who have spent so many years away. He likes them already. Still, no one can ever win an argument with Mother, and a few minutes later, the captain is holding the small bag containing all the coins they have left while Mother looks implacable. He still looks inclined to protest further, and Mahendra decides it’s his duty to save him from Mother’s sharp tongue. 

“Why can’t we take the ship into harbor?” he asks loudly before the captain can say anything. 

The captain blinks before launching into a long explanation of the relative depth of the ship’s hull and the water. It’s all very interesting, but most interesting of all is when the captain adds: “And after all, not ten years ago, all of this—“ he indicates the river around them “—was farmland.” 

Mahendra peers uncertainly at the water around them. It certainly doesn’t look anything like farmland. 

“A dam once diverted the river to the eastern harbor,” the captain adds, noticing his confusion, “but it was broken down and the river released to surround the palace walls as it pleases.” 

Mahendra considers this. It seems an awful shock to have land there one day, and river the next. “Did the farmers mind?” 

The captain chuckles. “You would have to ask them,” he says. “I’m only a simple sailor, who benefits greatly by the ability to sail directly to the palace gates. But I doubt they would complain; it was performed in Kuntala’s most desperate hour of need by a great hero. He won our princess by it.” the captain confides, leaning closer to Mahendra as though this ought to have special significance to him. 

“They give you a princess if you save a kingdom?” asks Mahendra, appalled. At least a cow or a horse is useful. A prince or princess is just another mouth to feed. He says as much to Mother and Father. 

“They’re very particular about that sort of thing in Kuntala,” says Father, voice carefully toneless. “There’s no reasoning with them.” 

“Really?” says Mother, every bit as civilly. “I seem to remember the hero’s uncle begging the princess to take charge of him out of the kindness of her heart. I daresay she accepted out of pity.” 

They smile at each other, and Mahendra doesn’t even have time to wonder what’s so funny _now_ because the gleaming white steps of the palace are before them. 

As they disembark, Mahendra’s heart beats a little faster, even as Mother quietly thanks the captain. It’s not been so long that he’s forgotten the last palace he saw, and how badly things had gone then. But this will be different, he tells himself; they’re only trying to find his uncles and aunt so they can say hello. 

He certainly likes the looks of this palace better. Trees grow inside and the whole of it is open the sky above. He’s so busy peering around that he doesn’t even realize they’ve approached a veranda, not unlike the one outside their house, except this one is the same pure white as the rest of the palace and raised off the ground by stairs. Men and women, dressed in formal clothes to clothes as simple as Mahendra’s own, gather around, talking amongst each other casually; a small informal line of visitors forms at one end to be greeted by those sitting on a chair—and Mahendra looks closer, and it’s his Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra. 

He feels almost lightheaded with relief to have discovered them so soon, before any terrifying king or queen can descend upon them. Mother steers him towards the line of visitors, moving to the very end, but they part and make way for her. He thinks Mother might say something, but Aunt Sumitra speaks instead, eyes wide: "Devasena? My dear, you didn't even send word of your arrival!" 

Mother looks rather guilty. "Any message would have arrived along with us. As such, I thought it unnecessary." 

Elder Uncle takes pity on her and says, "And surely this can't be Mahendra! How he's grown." 

Rather shyly, Mahendra approaches. It's been almost sixteen months since he saw Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra last, and he supposes he was still something of a baby then. But when he bends to touch their feet, Elder Uncle pulls him up to sit between them, and it's like no time at all has passed. Elder Uncle's gentle smile is exactly the same, hidden behind in his wild beard, and Aunt Sumitra coos and fusses over him in a way that would be embarrassing if it would be anyone else. But Aunt Sumitra fusses over everyone in the same way, even Mother and Father, grown though they are. It's just her way. 

Mahendra is reflecting on how nice it is that they managed to catch Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra when they weren't busy on the King's work when Elder Uncle turns to Mother and asks, "What can we thank for the unexpected joy of your...return?" 

"A visit only," says Mother firmly. "I meant to bring you word that--" 

"That can very well wait," decrees Aunt Sumitra, "At least until we arrange for a proper dinner, a bath, and a new set of clothes." She studies Mahendra's tunic critically; Mahendra, who really had tried his very best to keep it as clean as possible, fidgets. "Perhaps not in that order." 

Mahendra always forgets how very bossy Aunt Sumitra can be. He supposes Mother had to learn it from somewhere.

So, as always, Aunt Sumitra has her way, and steers them up two flights of stairs, where Mahendra is handed over to the charge of an old woman who casts one beady eye on him and takes his hands in an unforgiving grip. He looks at his parents helplessly, but Mother only seems resigned, as she usually does before Aunt Sumitra’s tyranny, and Father winks at him. Mahendra accepts his fate and follows the old woman, who warns him, “I had your mother under my care when she wasn’t much older than you are now, my darling, and you can be sure I learned all her clever tricks from her. So if you’re planning on any mischief…” 

Before Mahendra can point out that he never really plans it whenever he gets into trouble, truly he doesn’t, she has him in the nicest, warmest bath he’s had in days. She dries him off, and combs his hair even more mercilessly than Mother, and dresses him in a new set of clothes quite unlike any Mahendra’s ever owned before he can ask where his old things are. He thinks she must have mixed up his clothing with someone else’s, but it would be rude to point out her error. Possibly he can go and collect his clothes later. He starts slipping away to do just that but instead she leads him with her across the stark white courtyard. 

“Wait here, my darling boy,” she tells him and disappears into an archway, and Mahendra finds himself standing quite alone in the middle of the palace. No one seems to mind; there’s men and women, even boys and girls, walking to and from on whatever business brings them here. He thinks he just looks like one more of them; he must, because they smile at him, but they smile at everyone else, too. 

He waits and waits, and his guide does not return. He shifts his weight from leg to leg; he chews his lip. It doesn’t help that his new clothes scratch. It might be because they haven’t worn and washed it enough to make them as soft and comfortably as Mahendra’s own clothes; or it might be because of the thick golden embroidery from sleeve’s edge to the neck. He’s just wondering if he shouldn’t follow the old woman who knew his mother so long ago through the archway when he hears a shrill cry he hasn’t heard before and sees the birds nesting at the top of one of the trees. Their feathers shine turquoise and green all at once, and they never seem to nest near home. 

He considers. It’s a terribly tall tree, but if he only climbed up a bit, he might be able to take a closer look. Besides, by the time he managed that, he thinks the old woman might return. She did tell him to wait here, after all, and going in search of her would only mean getting into trouble, and she’d already told him not to do that. Satisfied, he jumps for the lowest branch he can reach and is proud of himself when his fingers only just catch it. 

It might be tall, but it’s a very nice tree to climb. He can hear the birds calling, as though to encourage him, and he takes another branch and another branch, and before he knows it, he’s so high he can look down and see all the courtyard at once. He can even make out the bright red that the kind old woman was wearing as she hurries across the courtyard, two other ladies behind her. Mahendra supposes he ought to climb down, then, so she doesn’t worry, but when he looks down at the ground, it seems so much farther away than he remembers. His hands clutch the branch tighter; his heart drums as though to beat its way out of his chest. It’s entirely a relief when a familiar pair of arms grabs him around his middle. 

“Sometimes,” Father tells him sternly, “I’m not sure if the gods gave us a monkey or a Mahendra.” 

“I only wanted to see the birds,” Mahendra tries to explain, but of course they’ve flown away, having caused enough trouble for one day. He twists around in Father’s arms to see where they are. Apparently if he’d only climbed a little further, the branch would have led him here, to a balcony he could have dropped onto. He feels more than a little ashamed of himself, but nonetheless he can't help but ask: “Where are we?” 

“The kitchens,” Father says, and that explains the many wonderful smells all around them. Father leads him through one door, a corridor, and then another, and then they’re facing another archway. Mahendra can’t understand how Father always seem to know his way, no matter where they are; it must be one of those things that come with time. He also can’t understand why Father gets to keep his old clothes, but Father only laughs at that and says he might delay in following Aunt Sumitra’s order for Mahendra’s sake, but wouldn’t dare disobey her. 

The archway opens out into another pavilion, this one smaller and enclosed by trees. Father gives him a gentle push forward before disappears down another corrdior. Mahendra, left alone once more, thinks he might as well step forward. His confidence is bolstered by the fact that Aunt Sumitra is already there, talking to the woman who got him ready and another lady dressed in dark green silk. 

“…climbs anything he can find,” the lady is saying, in tones that sound very, very familiar. “His father’s had to collect him off of more rooftops than either of us can count. I pray someday he’ll grow out of it, but—” 

And then she turns, sensing his presence, and Mahendra blinks in surprise. 

His first thought is that anyone who thought Queen Varuni was the most beautiful woman in the world must never have seen Mother like this. She looks so grand with her hair twisted elaborately and bright green stones sparkling at her wrists and neck that Mahendra thinks for a moment she looks like someone else entirely, someone else who has responsibilities far greater than caring for him. His insides twist with alarm. But then she sinks to her knees so he can run to her, and says, with an exasperated sigh: “Your fine new clothes, Mahendra,” and then she is just Mother again and he needn’t worry. 

The old woman lets out a cackle. “Don’t scold the boy for his naughtiness, Your Highness,” she says. “He comes by it honestly, as you must well remember, my dear.” 

“Your Highness?” Mahendra repeats, sure he must have heard wrong. 

“He doesn’t know?” Aunt Sumitra asks, at almost the same time. “Devasena—“ 

“I don’t see,” Mother says firmly, “that there’s any need to—“ 

Without meaning to, Mahendra remembers the fine white veranda that his aunt and uncle had been sitting on. He wouldn’t have thought anything of it if he hadn’t seen the dais in the throne room back home, but now it seems all too familiar, if rather more casual. He remembers how Mother had paused before telling him his uncles and aunt worked at the palace. He feels as though he has been rather foolish. 

“Well, there’s certainly a need now,” says Aunt Sumitra practically, and Mother gives Mahendra an assessing look. 

“A moment alone, please,” she says, and the other two retreat, leaving Mother alone with Mahendra. 

“My aunt and uncle are the King and Queen,” Mahendra says slowly, testing out this strange new theory. “You’re a princess.” 

“I was,” replies Mother, “before I married your father. Now I’m his wife and your mother.” 

But if Mother was a princess, or had been once, then perhaps that was why—“Does Grandmother know?” he asks. “Is that why she said such strange things to me?” 

Mother sighs. “In part. She wanted me to marry the King instead of your father.” Mahendra nods; in the stories, princesses only ever seemed to marry kings or other princes, but Mother never listened to what other people wanted her to do. “She was not…pleased when I refused.” 

“I’m glad you did,” Mahendra tells her, “even if Grandmother was angry. I wouldn’t have been born, or—“ he wrinkles his nose “—I’d have been wrinkled old Bhadra instead.” 

When he looks at Mother, her face is as disgusted as his own. “That,” she says decisively, “would never come to be.” 

And he’s very glad to hear she agrees. Which only leaves one last question he wants answered: “If you’re a princess, what does that make me?” 

Mother looks surprised. “Nothing,” she tells him, “except who you already are. Being a prince doesn’t make you better than any other boy or girl, Mahendra. It only means that you have a duty to take care of those around you, to make their worries your own. It is a responsibility, not a gift.” 

Mahendra thinks this a thrilling mission. He might not have known before, but he swears to carry out his duty, twice as well, to make up for all the time he’s missed. He curls closer to Mother, who’s just as soft and warm and welcoming, despite her fine clothes. 

“I’m sorry I said princesses were useless,” he says before he can forget. 

“I’d already assumed I was the exception,” she tells him, and kisses the top of his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See, nice things happen to Mahendra and his family every once in a while! Other notes below:
> 
> * There are indeed natural arches over the river between Kuntala and Mahishmati; they can be glimpsed at the very beginning of Hamsa Naava/Orey Oar Ooril. Canon Shivudu/Mahendra is so associated with the river's power that I felt he was the member of the family who would appreciate it the most.
> 
> * Amarendra and Kattappa spend most of the Kuntala adventures wearing two layers of clothing where the Kuntala men don't --and Devasena and her sister-in-law consistently wear short sleeves-- so given its location up in the mountains, I've taken the liberty of assuming that it is much cooler there than in Mahishmati. 
> 
> * (Edit: thanks to kaadhu/forestpenguin again for reminding me!) Eagle-eyed readers will have guessed that the boat captain begins to address Devasena as "yuvarani," not "young lady," as Mahendra assumes. However, I'd already established that I translated the title as "Crown Princess," and it would have been quite ridiculous not to have him guess his mother's identity if given so glaring a hint early on. So instead, I translated the one syllable the captain manages to get out: _yuv-_ , or literally "young."
> 
> * Devasena's unnamed old servant is none other than Mani-amma, her devoted nurse in forestpenguin's wonderful "The Princess and Her Spy." She very graciously gave me permission to borrow her here for a short cameo.
> 
> * Amarendra's monkey/Mahendra quip actually works (as far as I'm aware) as _bandar/beta_ (Hindi) and குரங்கு/குழந்தை (Tamil). I don't know Telugu well enough to identify alliterative words there, but I would certainly be beyond tickled if they were so in that language as well!
> 
> Next Time: Mahendra makes a new friend.


	5. Chapter 5

Any lingering hauteur Mahendra might feel quickly disappears once he realizes he spent his first hour as a not-quite-prince falling asleep at dinner. 

He doesn’t mean to, not at all, but one instant he is nodding sadly when Elder Uncle explains that Uncle Kumar is away inspecting the villages at the southern border and isn’t expected back until tomorrow, and the next, he is blinking up at the ceiling in a bedroom he doesn’t recognize. He would be frightened, except Father is there, smiling a little when he sees Mahendra is awake.  

“The day has been long,” he says gently. “Sleep, Mahendra.”         

Mahendra frowns. Only babies doze when they're meant to be doing something else, and he hasn't needed to be carried to bed in _months_. Particularly when he had so many questions for Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra about what it was to be a King or a Queen: was it really as much hard work as Father says it must be, is the crown as uncomfortable as it looks, and did all their clothes have to be so very scratchy?           

But it's no use admitting any of that to Father, who'll only assure him it's all right. He supposes Father really can't be expected to understand how terribly embarrassing it is to be a not-quite prince who can't seem to stay awake. "Whose room is this?" he asks instead, through a yawn. A quick, bleary glance around shows it to be far grander than anything he's accustomed to, and certainly he doesn't want to anger whoever it really belongs to.        

Father smiles. "Your mother's," he says, "when she was as old as you are now." Which, Mahendra assumes, must mean it's all right. Mother won't mind, after all. He settles back into the bed, which seems too soft and warm for his eyes to stay open.      

With a final tousle of Mahendra's hair, Father rises. "If you need us during the night, we'll not be too far away." He indicates a door on the far side of the room, but when he leaves, it's through another door entirely. Probably to join Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra again, but Mahendra finds himself too tired to insist with any conviction that he can come, too.        

"You can speak with them in the morning," says Father and closes the door behind him firmly.        

Mahendra means to sleep, truly he does, but as soon as Father leaves, everything that seemed so comfortable about the room seems to vanish. The bed is too large, and the blankets too soft and slippery. The room is first too hot, then too cold. Someone's brought his own clothes back, he notes with relief, but even exchanging the garments he's been given for his old clothes doesn't seem to help.         

Finally he realizes what the trouble is: it’s too quiet. As long as he can remember, he's always fallen asleep with his parents in the same room; the absence of their voices or laughter or even their breathing is unnerving. For a moment he wants badly to go find them, wherever they might be. But he has acted like a child once today already. He refuses to do so again.      

Now resigned to being awake, Mahendra studies his surroundings with new interest instead: unlike every other room in this palace, it's only half the size of their cottage, not twice. To his right, a collection of toys are neatly, if somewhat dustily, arranged. Those must have been Mother's, once, he realizes, and pads closer to examine them more closely.          

Mother didn't seem to have much use for toys, it seems, but what few he can find aren't very different from Mahendra's own back at home. She played with a _pachisi_ board too, and a carved menagerie of animals, ranging from a miniature monkey whose jointed arms swing back and forth and a finely painted tiger who bares her teeth fiercely. There's a set of dolls, too, like the ones the girls back home marry off in grand ceremonies. However, when Mahendra looks closer at these, he spies swords belted to their waists, tiny quivers strapped to their back, and bows balanced on their shoulder. Fascinated, he reaches out to touch one of the bows, certain he could string it and even fire one of the arrows with it, finely made as it is, when the door opens.       

Mahendra jumps.         

Silhouetted in the light from the corridor outside is a short, slight figure; as his eyes adjust, he can see it's only a girl, no older than he is. 

"Oh," she breathes, "please pardon me--" and makes to shut the door. Before Mahendra can feel any relief, though, it's wide open again once more, and her hands are on her hips. "You," she announces indignantly, "are not meant to be here."        

It's so nearly what Mahendra has dreaded to hear that his first inclination is to flee for shame. But: his mother was a princess, and this room belonged to her once. He stands his ground.        

"Neither are you," he points out, and while the girl doesn't show any signs of shock or remorse, her arms fall to her side.       

"You must be looking for her as well," she decides, looking imperiously down at him. “It’s all right, I won’t tell anyone.” 

Mahendra nods, hoping that will be enough to satisfy her and send her away; however, she only lets out an exasperated huff in response. 

“She’s not here,” the girl says. “Obviously.” 

This is not at all going the way he wants it to. Mahendra stares stupidly at her. 

“Oh come _on_ , then,” she snaps, and charges into the room to pull him bodily along with her into the corridor. Mahendra opens his mouth to protest, but considers the alternative: lying in bed for the rest of the night, trying in vain to sleep. At least this way no one can blame him for getting into trouble, not when it’s clearly this mad girl’s fault for dragging him along with her. And _drag_ she does, enough that he has to stumble along in her wake like a clumsy oaf. 

“Where are we going?” he manages at last. If it’s somewhere boring, he’s going to go back to bed, even if he does get lost again along the way. Not that, in fairness, he can think of very many boring places here in Kuntala. 

“Where do you think?” the mad girl retorts, so dismissive that it rankles. Mahendra stops short with a frown, and after only a few steps more, the girl has to stop as well. She lets out another irritated sigh. “Would you rather be back in a long-forgotten room, looking like nothing more than a thief?” 

Mahendra flushes. “I am not,” he says, “a thief!” 

“Well, I know that,” says the girl reasonably, “and you know that. But others won’t. Besides,” she casts an appraising glance over him, “you’ll have started here a week ago? Or two at the most?” 

“We only arrived this afternoon,” he admits. 

“Oh!” The girl raises her eyebrows, but recovers quickly. “Well, no wonder you’re still taken aback at your good fortune at having arrived in time to meet her. I know I was—“ 

He’s beginning to suspect she’ll never get around to explaining who this mysterious _her_ is. Whoever she may be, she makes the girl’s eyes shine and her words flow out so rapidly they’re almost incomprehensible. 

“My mother was her friend and her lady-in-waiting when they were younger. She told me all about her, but even Mother does not know she was here! But I looked and I listened until I found out, and now that I have, I won't rest until I meet her myself.” She gazes into a pretty vision of her own making, starry-eyed, until Mahendra coughs pointedly and she adds: “So I can’t blame you for doing your best to try and meet her, too. But if you think skulking about in dark corners will win you an audience with the Princess Devasena—“ 

“Why do you want to meet her?” Mahendra blurts out before he can think better of it. He supposes it’s only to be expected, now that Mother is a princess, but the thought of other people knowing her as anything more than his mother is still startling. 

The girl’s eyes narrow. “Why, don’t you? Don’t dare say you’re one of those who are still angry she gave up her throne to go to Mahishmati.” 

"Of course I'm not!" Mahendra replies indignantly. "If she hadn't, I wouldn't be--" 

“Good,” says the girl, who seems only have listened to his refusal and nothing else. “My mother met one of them once. She shouted at him for so long my baby sister cried and cried. He deserved it, though.” She nods her head in remembered satisfaction. 

“Are there many like that?” Mahendra starts walking again. He feels rather friendlier towards her, now that it seems that all she wants is to go find Mother; and if Mahendra follows her, he can see Mother and most probably Father, too. 

She tosses her head. “I wouldn’t know. They’re all fools, though. Mother told me all about Princess Devasena. There’s no one cleverer, or kinder, or braver in all the world. She’s the best archer Kuntala’s ever seen, and anyone she trains will be incomparable.” 

Mahendra likes the sound of that, too. He imagines telling Mother he’s incomparable, all because she was the one who taught him to shoot his arrows straight and true. 

“Which is why,” the girl says, “I have to find her. I want to be without any rival someday, too, and the only way that can happen is if I can convince her to take me as her student.” 

“What if she has more than one student, though? You can’t all be the best archer in the world.” 

The girl ponders this. “I would have to challenge them someday,” she decides. “But that can wait. I’d have to learn first.” She pauses and frowns as they pass by a familiar-looking tree. “Where are we?” 

“The kitchens,” says Mahendra, rather smug to know something she doesn’t, for once. The girl nods and leads him down another hallway. Once she’s not being so bossy and mysterious, he likes her far more. He decides he’ll ask Mother if he can take the girl on a student while they are here in Kuntala. After all, Mother said that as a not-quite-prince, he had a duty to make other people’s worries his own, and he thinks this girl’s worries will do well enough for a start. 

As they walk along, she tells him more about her mother, her father, a general in the Kuntalan army, and her baby sister. Mahendra thinks the thought of a baby sister is awful, but the girl tells him it’s not so very bad. “At first they don’t do much,” she confides, “but now Rohini's almost old enough that she can sit up. Mother says she’ll start talking before we know it.” 

That doesn’t sound like much an improvement to Mahendra, but before he can say anything, the girl shushes him and points down to what looks only like a hole at the bottom of the wall, but one through which voices—familiar voices—can be heard. 

“…No word of when or from where,” he hears Mother say and drops to his hands and knees so he can hear better. 

“Come on,” his new friend mouths, but Mahendra shakes his head. They hadn’t talked of Grandfather’s message at all during dinner—Aunt Sumitra hadn’t allowed it—and Mahendra wants badly to know what Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra will decide to do about it. 

“—No chance of misunderstanding?” Elder Uncle is saying when he concentrates once again. 

“Uncle’s men are beyond suspicion,” comes Father’s voice. “If error arises, it won’t be due to any fault on their part.” 

“But we are entirely at peace!” says Aunt Sumitra, sounding far more upset than she ever does in Mahendra’s presence. “Singapuram’s only just renegotiated their contracts with us, and the lower lands depend on our goodwill and trade since the Malawa Islands remain preoccupied with their own affairs. 

“The Chalukyas?” says Mother. “Sooner or later, they’ll need money to fund their building projects, and war is as good a source as any.” 

“It is my belief that the Chalukyas remain uncertain as to whether or not Mahishmati remains allied with Kuntala, or not. Best not to incur a fellow empire’s wrath by attacking relatives by marriage that they might or might not acknowledge.” 

Mother lets out a short laugh. “Seven years must have been enough to persuade them otherwise.” 

"Two or three or five years might have been enough, too, and still no attack," murmurs Aunt Sumitra. "Most likely there's nothing to fear from them." 

“When all is said and done,” says Elder Uncle, “have you considered that this may be nothing more than a ruse to divert your attention elsewhere? It may be as simple as Bhallaladeva wanting to exact his vengeance on your friends and supporters while their protectors are elsewhere. I have nothing but the greatest respect for Kattappa, but he is helpless before his loyalties.” 

Mahendra’s heart sinks. He imagines gentle Seshu, nursing his snake-bitten foot; Hari, who likes to pass out sweets on festivals; and worst of all, Gopu, still waiting to hear about Mahendra’s adventures in Kuntala, facing down faceless guards for no other crime than being his friends. He pictures his home broken and burning, and suddenly all he wants is to run back as quickly as he can to convince himself everything is all right. 

“Uncle would never willingly harm us,” says Father confidently, but the image of destruction, once created in Mahendra’s mind, does not leave him easily. “It would bring the King no goodwill to be seen cutting down his own people, and besides, Mother wouldn’t hear of it.” 

“If anything,” Mother says, “the worst of the danger passed for them once we left. There are spies posted everywhere; it’s hardly a secret. They call the hounds back once the quarry’s escaped, after all.” 

Mahendra gets up, not entirely sure he wants to hear anything more. Mother says everyone is safe at home, for now at least; but only as long as they’re not there. They put everyone else in danger, she says, and no one, not even Father, disagrees. Can he ever go home again if that's true? Should he even want to? 

“What’s wrong?” the girl says, voice sharp again. “You’ve gone all pale.” 

“Can you show me the way back?” Mahendra asks, wishing he’d paid more attention to how they’d arrived here. 

“Is that where you’ve been assigned?” she says, and doesn’t wait for an answer. “Just go down that hallway until you get to the painting of the peacock and turn left, then right, then left again.” Mahendra nods in thanks, but as he turns to go, she catches his shoulder and asks: “We’ll find her together tomorrow, then?” 

He’d almost forgotten his lofty intentions of helping her before. He nods in confirmation; one way or another, he’ll certainly see Mother tomorrow, if only to approach her with his fears. Bringing up his new friend's hopes should be no great trouble. 

“Good,” she says, haughty as before. He can’t bring himself to be annoyed anymore. “Find me when you’re done with your work."

He's almost to the painting she mentioned when he thinks to question: "And how will I do that?" 

"Ask for Avantika!" she calls back from the other end of the hallway, and then she is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I doubt none of you were truly surprised (because I have the most amazing and perceptive readers/friends possible; I despair of including a plot twist that you all don't see coming) a few notes: 
> 
> * Regarding Avantika --this is indeed intended to be the same character! Some of you might question that she seems younger than Shivudu/Mahendra in canon; for you, I offer the defense that as this is an alternative universe where Kuntala never feel, Avantika's parents therefore felt more secure and gave birth to her sooner, such that she is only nine months or so younger than Mahendra instead. Her personality is indeed vastly changed, as she has grown up as a young noblewomen with a loving family and without the pressures of being raised by a group of rebels, but hopefully enough of her core traits remain. 
> 
> * We have no indication of who Avantika's parents are in canon. Her mother being one of Devasena's ladies-in-waiting is entirely my own invention, as is her baby sister, to further emphasize what a different home life this Avantika leads.
> 
> * _Pachisi_ : ancient Indian board game, related to Ludo/Parcheesi. 
> 
> * For those wondering regarding Devasena and her dolls--I imagine they were given to her by some well-meaning dignitary, who perhaps hadn't yet heard of her reputation even at so young an age. Devasena surprised everyone not only by accepting with every show of pleasure but also by playing with them whenever she could. It was only later, when she was finally asked, that everyone realized that far from pretending to have parties and weddings with her dolls, she was having councils of war: they were her loyal generals, plotting out bloodthirsty campaigns of conquest together. (Hence the weapons she carefully had made for them.)
> 
> * This is another chapter that had to be split due to length; however, the upcoming week may be quite busy for me, and there is a chance I might have to go to our first biweekly schedule. I will do my best to get the next chapter up on time, but if not, I am truly sorry!


	6. Chapter 6

When he opens his eyes, Mahendra’s first thought is to find his parents. Once he’d finally found Mother’s old room again last night, he had planned to stay awake until he heard the sounds of their return, but the bed had gone all warm and comfortable again as he waited, and it had been more and more difficult to keep his eyelids open until he had admitted defeat. Now, through the window to his left, he can see the sun begin to peek over the mountains. _We'll not be too far away_ , Father promised. Mahendra slides from the bed and staggers towards the door Father indicated earlier.  

They are there. Mahendra breathes a sigh of relief. Mother is awake already —she wakes up even before Mahendra, most of the time —and she is sitting on the bed, smiling slightly and idly running her fingers through Father’s hair. Her smile widens when she sees him; she beckons him closer with her free hand. 

“Hush,” she whispers, “your father’s still sleeping.”         

It's so very nearly like what life used to be before everything went wrong: before that invitation arrived from the palace, before his parents seemed weighed down by constant worry, before they left their comfortable cottage behind. His throat tightens; his eyes burn. 

Mahendra almost makes it to Mother's side before the first sob escapes—and when he needed to be quiet to not wake up Father, too! He clambers into her lap and tries to smother his next cry into her shoulder, but it doesn't do much good. By the time his wails subside to feeble hiccoughs, Father is awake and staring at Mahendra with as much bewilderment as does Mother. "Mahendra," he asks, "what's wrong?"       

Mahendra scrubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, lets out a last doleful sniffle, and firms his resolve. "I want," he says as firmly as he can manage, "to go home."        

Mother and Father share a look. Mahendra tries not to fidget. More than anything he wants to prove his fears wrong. If his parents say they can go home, and then they do, that will mean that he heard wrong, that everything is all right, and that it will be as though none of this ever happened. “I want to go home _right now_ ,” he says, more urgently. 

“Why?” asks Mother. “Has anyone been unkind to you?” 

“No,” he has to admit. He likes everyone here in Kuntala very much indeed, but still not as much as he loves everyone back home. “But I don’t want anyone to be unkind to Gopu or Seshu or Aunt Lakshmi, either. So we have to go home.” 

Mother sighs. “I think your ears are growing faster than the rest of you,” she tells him, and despite everything, Mahendra reaches up to check. His ears don’t feel any larger than they used to be, though, which is a relief. As fond as he is of elephants, he doesn’t necessarily want to look like one. “You know better than to roam about a strange place alone after dark.” 

“I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to find you,” he explains. He doesn’t think Mother will be pacified if he mentions that he wasn’t strictly alone, and besides, he doesn’t want to get Avantika into trouble, as well. Instead he asks a more pressing question: “Is it true what Elder Uncle said? Will the King hurt everyone back home?” 

“The King,” Father says firmly, “will do nothing of the sort.” 

This soothes Mahendra for a minute, until he remembers what else Mother had said. “Will the King hurt everyone if we go back home? Is that why they are in danger? Is—is it our fault?” 

That is worst of all to consider: that they had done so much harm to all his friends, only because they lived there instead of another village. But even that other village wouldn’t be the home Mahendra loves so much, with its ashoka blossoms and its machinery and its trees and boulders exactly the right size for him to climb; and who’s to say they would not cause as much trouble for the people who lived there? Mahendra’s stomach twists with guilt. 

Father puts his hands on Mahendra’s shoulders, squeezing so Mahendra looks up and meets his gaze. “You are never at fault for the choices someone else makes,” he says gently. “If the King chooses cruelty, than the mistake is his and his alone. The burden is his to bear, not yours.” 

He feels a little lighter. “Does that mean we can go home?” 

Father looks at Mother, whose expression is serious. “We could,” she says. “All your grandfather asked us to do was deliver his message, and that has been done.” It doesn’t seem like that’s all she means to say, though. “But?” asks Mahendra. 

“But,” says Mother, “as you must have heard, your uncle and aunt were not expecting anything of the sort at all. They asked if your father and I would review the defenses—inspect the forts and armories, evaluate the soldiers, simple things such as that. It won’t take long, only a day or two at the most.” 

Mahendra considers. It’s only one day, after all, and then they can go home. He thinks he can bear that much. “All right,” he says. “Can I come?” 

“No,” his parents say as one, and Mother adds: “Why don’t you explore the palace instead, and tell us all about it tonight? Maniamma will look after you if you need anything at all.” 

“Imagine how much mischief you could manage to get into if you see the place by daylight,” murmurs Father with a grin. 

Which sounds like a good enough idea at first, except after Mother and Father leave with Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra in a fleet of the funny-looking chariots they have here in Kuntala, he finds there’s only so much that he can explore. The palace is full of intriguing hallways, which is nice, and all sorts of balconies and rooftops that promise magnificent views, but also full of plenty of men and women who smile and gently steer him away from the walls and pillars that he’s trying to climb and ask if he is lost. Even when he explains that he’s not, they always guide him back to Mother’s old room, where Maniamma waits to scold him for wandering off again. It’s really quite frustrating. Mahendra wishes he had insisted on going with Mother and Father instead. 

By afternoon, Mahendra despairs. He sits on the white stairs leading to the main courtyard and sulks. If they’re going home tomorrow, or the day after —and Mother and Father had as good as promised, so they must be—then he really ought to finish finding out all the secrets of the palace here in Kuntala. But that doesn’t seem likely, after all, not when so many people seem to be determined to watch over him for Mother’s sake. He can’t help but be disgruntled. Though, perhaps someday, once things are better, maybe he can come back to Kuntala and discover all its treasures— 

“You never came to find me,” a voice breaks into his thoughts, and he looks up to see Avantika. By sunlight, he can see she has a sharp chin and narrowed eyes. She doesn’t seem terribly pleased with him. 

“I forgot,” Mahendra admits. “I’m sorry.” 

She sits down beside him. “I forgive you,” she announces. “Besides, I heard the Crown Princess had already left early this morning. It wouldn’t have done much good, after all.” 

“Only for the day,” Mahendra says. “But she’s not here.” 

Avantika remains undeterred. “That’s all right. That means I have more time to plan how best to impress her once I do meet her.” 

“I could tell my mother all about you,” Mahendra offers. “I meant to, but I forgot about that, too.” 

For some reason, she only seems confused. “That is kind of you,” she says at last. “But I don’t think her good opinion will mean that much. No, it must be something really wonderful. So wonderful she’ll have no choice but to take me as her student!” She chews her lip absently. “Maybe you could drown in the river, and I could save you?” 

Because he has decided that her worries should be his, he is happy to help her in any way he can, but: “I think Maniamma would be angry with me if I ruined my new clothes pretending to drown.” 

“You couldn’t _pretend_!” Avantika frowns. “That would be a lie, and you’re not supposed to lie to your teacher. That’s how you end up cursed. You’d have to really drown, and I’d have to really save you. What do you say?” 

The thought of really drowning sounds nothing but unpleasant, even though Avantika promises faithfully to save him as soon as she can. When he admits this, Avantika huffs in annoyance but moves on to her next idea, which is that she could protect a farmer’s fields from being ransacked, except it’s the wrong season for anyone to bother interfering with the harvest. Likewise, Mahendra suspects that the odds of finding a convenient group of bandits in the forest to defeat are not in their favor, no matter what Avantika tells him about them always being very wicked and very stupid. 

“Do you have any ideas yourself, or are you just going to tell me that you don’t like mine?” Avantika snaps at last, which is not very nice at all. He wonders suddenly if this is how Gopu feels whenever Mahendra calls him a coward for not going along with one of his plans. It’s not a pleasant feeling. He owes poor Gopu an apology as soon as he sees him again. But first, he has to come up with a good enough suggestion for Avantika to use. 

“You could always defeat a rampaging beast, like a boar, or a mad dog,” Mahendra offers, recalling Grandfather’s tale the night before they had left, “or an elephant!” He brightens before remembering: “But there aren’t any here in Kuntala, are there?” 

“No,” says Avantika. “At least I haven’t seen one. Have you?” 

“We have herds of them back home,” Mahendra tells her. “They’re so big they block out the sun, and they eat three men’s weight in food every day. Even the babies.” He’s not entirely certain he remembers that last part correctly, but Avantika certainly appears impressed. Considering she usually seems quite the opposite when talking to him, it’s a change for the better. Mahendra sits up a little taller. 

“Or,” he is saying when a shadow stretches over him, “you could just ask Mother to—“ He breaks off and looks behind him to find the best surprise he’s had in days. “Uncle Kumar!” he bawls, and scrambles to his feet so he can throw himself into his uncle’s arms. 

“‘Uncle?’” repeats Avantika, so softly he can barely hear her. He ignores that, though, because Uncle Kumar is laughing and catching him up. 

“And how has my tiger-cub been?” he asks, and Mahendra grins. He knows he isn’t supposed to say this, or even really think such a thing, but he loves Uncle Kumar the very best of his uncles. He has missed him so. 

“‘Uncle?’” Avantika says, in rather shriller tones than before, but that has to wait because he has to tell Uncle Kumar all about what’s happened so far during his time here. Though maybe he’ll leave out the scary parts; he doesn’t want Uncle Kumar to have to worry, too. 

“We had to come all the way to Kuntala to deliver news from Grandfather,” he explains, “and we came on a ship, and they left me beat the drums and row the oars and climb all the way up to the top to the mast, and then we came here, and—did you know Mother used to be a princess?” To his disappointment, Uncle Kumar only nods and doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Well, she was, and I saw her old room and her toys and I met Maniamma, and she said—“ 

“‘ _Uncle!_ ’” Avantika interrupts, and only then does Mahendra realize how rude he’s been. 

He’s just starting to say, “And this is my friend Avantika, she’s going to learn archery from Mother—” when she stands up, hands on her hips. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me who you were!” she snaps. “That wasn’t nice at all, letting me think you were a servant, when—when—I’m angry at you again!” she announces and stomps away. 

Uncle Kumar raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t do anything!” Mahendra protests, but his uncle only shakes his head. 

“It must be something in the blood,” is all he will say, which doesn’t make any sense at all. 

Mahendra would feel worse that Avantika is cross with him once more, but that has to wait until his excitement at seeing Uncle Kumar fades. “I’m glad you came back so early,” he tells him. “We’re leaving tomorrow, so if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have seen you.” Which reminds him: “Can you ask the servants to let me climb up to that balcony at the very top, please? I want to find out how far I can see from up there.” 

Uncle Kumar frowns. “Tomorrow?” 

Mahendra nods. “That’s what Mother and Father said.” Because he knows how sad it is when guests leave, he goes on: “And we would love to stay longer, except we can’t, because the King is a bad man and might hurt our friends, except it’s not our fault because his choices are his own. So I told them we have to go back, and they said yes.” He pauses. “At least I think so.” 

Uncle Kumar sighs and lets Mahendra down before sinking down on the steps. Mahendra sits beside him, wondering what’s wrong. “Mahendra,” says Uncle Kumar, “you know where your mother and father have gone, don’t you?” 

Mahendra nods. “To go look at the forts and weapons and soldiers. They said it wouldn’t take long.” 

“It won’t,” says Uncle Kumar, “not the rest of it, at least. But I met them at the beginning of their visit and I know what they saw: empty forts, half-stocked armories, and half-trained soldiers in fewer numbers than we need to turn back any attack. Kuntala has known nothing but peace for seven years, and we will need the help of your parents to prepare for war once more. If not, we may as well as surrender now.” 

Mahendra squirms. He doesn’t want to think of anything happening to Kuntala, not when everyone here is so kind and good, but at the same time: “But what about home?” 

Uncle Kumar closes his eyes. “Years ago, Mahendra, I interfered in the affairs of a country not my own, while neglecting my home, and it almost ended in disaster. I would be the last man alive to tell you to repeat my mistakes, but,” he opens his eyes and turns to Mahendra, “your father told me once that a warrior’s duty is to protect others, and I believe he meant that even if they are your own or outsiders.” 

“But what if my own people are in danger, too?” 

“They might be,” Uncle Kumar allows, “or they might not. We cannot be certain of that. What we can be sure of is that without help, Kuntala will be destroyed.” 

As much as he wants to, Mahendra cannot argue. He slumps in defeat. “Will it take very long?” 

“A few weeks, perhaps sooner. It takes time, though, to craft weapons, to build walls, to teach soldiers what to do.” 

It sounds like a tremendous amount of work; it’s a pity there isn’t an easier way to solve Kuntala’s problems. “I _wish_ you could just break down the dam again,” he mutters, thinking back to what the captain had said about the last time Kuntala was in terrible danger. 

“That’s true,” agrees Uncle Kumar. “But your father will think of something. He’ll have more time to do it in, if nothing else.” 

Mahendra nods, even though he can’t see what Father has to do with anything. But he supposes that if anyone can think of something, it would probably be Father. Father always has the best ideas. Still. A few weeks, almost a month, without seeing Gopu or any of his friends or being sure that they are safe! Mahendra looks down at his feet, dejected. 

Uncle Kumar puts his arm around him. “I know you’re disappointed,” he says, “but Kuntala will thank you and your parents for the rest of its days. You will be counted among its heroes, my tiger cub.” 

He does like the idea of being a hero, even though he doesn’t think they’ve really done anything to deserve it. Maybe it wouldn’t all be bad. Gopu would definitely be impressed if Mahendra were a hero when he came back, and probably even Avantika would have to forgive him for whatever had made her so angry. Before he can say yes, though— 

“No princesses,” Mahendra says, remembering what Father said about Kuntalans being unreasonable about the prizes they gave their saviors. “Mother is all right, but we don’t need any more.” 

“I swear,” agrees Uncle Kumar gravely; they clasp hands to seal their promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was admittedly a chapter that didn't initially exist; but on rereading, Mahendra needed a bit more time to work through several of his concerns before we could onwards as initially planned, and so this involved a great deal of shuffling around sections and rewriting in the midst of a very busy week. Which is just to say: apologies for any errors or awkwardness (and feel free to point them out, I don't mind at all!). Otherwise, moving on to what I think is our shortest end notes section yet:
> 
> *Maniamma continues to belong to forestpenguin/kaadhu. I fear I'll have to hold her hostage from her own fic for a bit longer, sorry!
> 
> *Avantika's reference to being cursed after lying to your teachers is a very vague reference to the story of Karna and Parashurama. 
> 
> *Kumar Varma's nickname for Mahendra is, of course, derived from his comment and accompanying gift at Devasena's baby shower. 
> 
> Next Time: we finally reach the midpoint of my original outline for this story. *sob* ...As I'm sure is by now embarrassingly obvious, we are definitely going to have more than seven chapters ;)
> 
> **Update (8/8): At this time, I don’t think I’m going to be able to get Chapter 7 beta’d, edited, and rewritten by tomorrow and…it looks like this is going to be the first biweekly hiatus :( But you guys can expect Chapter 7 up on the 15-16th! And the first of the apology fics and hopefully another surprise by the end of the week.**


	7. Chapter 7

Grandfather always says if you want something done both swiftly and sufficiently, it’s best to keep an eye on it yourself. So Mahendra makes it a habit to wake up as early as he can and follow Mother and Uncle Kumar to the training hall most days to watch as they prepare Kuntala’s soldiers for war. Despite Mahendra’s hopes, and Mother’s best efforts, it looks like a very slow process. Father says Mahendra won’t be old enough to start learning how to use a sword until his next birthday, but even so he can tell their grasps on the hilts are all wrong, the placement of their feet awkward. 

Only a very few, in particular the one regiment under the command of a man named Madhav, seem at all confident in their skills; but there are not more than twenty or so men that capable. Mahendra prepares himself for a long stay. 

Mother seems just as disappointed. “I would have expected better of Madhav,” she grumbles as she, Mahendra, and Uncle Kumar walk back to the main pavilion of the palace. “It’s nothing short of disgraceful.” 

“One man can only do so much,” says Uncle Kumar. “And besides—“ 

“Crown Princess!” 

Mother stops short, and Mahendra, walking just behind her, can’t help but stumble into her. A tall, slightly balding man stands in their path. His teeth are bared in what must be meant to be a smile; his eyes are cold. He’s accompanied by a younger man who looks as though he would rather be anywhere else, and under the circumstances, Mahendra cannot entirely blame him. 

“Lord Shashank.” Mother’s voice is barely polite, but the other man doesn’t seem to notice at all. His smile widens even more, and he says, in tones so servile and flattering it makes the hairs on the back of Mahendra’s neck rise: 

“We had heard you had seen sense and returned at last, Crown Princess, but we hardly believed it until now! For years we’ve had to live with only the memory of you; our eyes were starved—“ He reaches for his companion and pulls him forward. “You must recall my son?” 

Mother nods. “Quite well,” she says. “My greetings, Nitish.” 

“He wishes nothing more than to serve Kuntala by leading its army,” Lord Shashank continues. “He waits only for your word, and he will entirely at your service—“ 

“I fear that decision is no longer mine to make,” Mother replies. She turns to look rather pointedly at Uncle Kumar. “Perhaps you might address—“ 

Lord Shashank chuckles. “Come now, Crown Princess. There’s no need to hide behind trivialities among old family friends.” Mother opens her mouth, but before she can say anything, Lord Shashank notices Mahendra. He bends down, ostensibly in a friendly gesture, but it only brings him closer to Mahendra, who is suddenly take aback by the stench of perfume. There’s a great deal of it, and all of it seems designed to tickle his nose. Mahendra holds his breath and tries his best not to sneeze, but all that does—or perhaps it’s the perfume itself—is makes his head swim. 

“The young prince himself!” says Lord Shashank, apparently oblivious to Mahendra’s discomfort. “What fortune. And how are you liking your kingdom so far?” 

Mahendra fights the urge to hide his head behind Mother’s skirts. “Not really a prince,” he manages to force out, hoping this will be enough to make Lord Shashank go away and allow him a breath of clean air. 

He only laughs instead. “In Kuntala, at least, you are, Your Highness. We are not so short-sighted.” He straightens. “Crown Princess, again I ask—“ 

For all he claims to be an old family friend of Mother, he can’t know her well at all: Mother is smiling, and if Lord Shashank had any sense at all, he would know no good ever comes of Mother smiling in quite that fashion. 

“I understand it must seem as though seven years have not passed at all,” Mother says sweetly, “particularly to a man of your advanced years. But I am certain that you must remember that I renounced my claim to the throne upon my marriage, and that Kumar Varma was appointed Crown Prince in my stead?” 

For the first time, Lord Shashank falters. “How—how could I not?” 

“Then I’m certain you will treat your Crown Prince with the respect he is rightfully due. As you must have been doing throughout the years.” 

Lord Shashank opens his mouth, but he is interrupted by his surly son, who decides to speak at last. “Enough of this, Father.” He bows to Mother. “Crown Princess.” A pause, and a incremental nod of his head to Uncle Kumar. “Crown Prince.” 

Mother watches them go with a scowl before turning to Uncle Kumar. “How long have they been behaving so?” 

Uncle Kumar fidgets. “I’m sure it’s the surprise of your presence that’s emboldened them so. Ordinarily they are not—“ 

Mother looks unconvinced. “Ordinarily they treat you much the same, except no one else hears of it,” she snaps. “Whatever they might think, you are the Crown Prince of Kuntala and its future king, and if you won’t demand the respect you deserve—“ She looks down to notice Mahendra’s continued distress. “Take a few deep breaths, Mahendra,” she instructs. “It’ll fade soon.” 

Mahendra obeys, and just as Mother says, the scent disappears. 

“Shashank brews it himself,” Uncle Kumar explains. “Perhaps he finds it pleasing.” 

“Perhaps,” says Mother, “he’s found people are less likely to argue with his decisions if they’re distracted.” 

“I didn’t like him,” Mahendra announces. “I thought I’d like everyone in Kuntala.” 

“Mahishmati might think it has a monopoly on all goods,” Mother says at last. “But unfortunately, unpleasant people are not one of those.” 

“He was much worse when we were younger,” adds Uncle Kumar. “Age has softened him.” 

Mahendra thinks back to something Avantika said. “Is he angry that Mother gave up her throne to go to Mahishmati?” he asks. 

“Yes,” says Uncle Kumar, not a little surprised, and to Mother, adds: “Not as much as his brother, though. Vrishank was all for war when—some time ago.” 

“And yet no one thought to ask my opinion on the matter,” murmurs Mother, which doesn’t make a great deal of sense, but Mahendra thinks all he really needs to know is that Lord Shashank and his family are not very nice. It is a disappointment, but the number of nice people in Kuntala far outweigh the bad, he thinks contentedly. Even when it’s sometimes overwhelming, as when he discovers that along with his Aunt Lakshmi, he has an Aunt Akhila and an Aunt Madhavi and an Aunt Indu and an Aunt Pallavi. What makes it even more confusing is that some of them knew him when he was too small to remember it, so most of the meeting passes in a flurry of coos and exclamations about how much he has grown. 

Mahendra supposes he would mind it more if they didn’t feed him sweetmeats and _jamun_ fruits and if Mother didn’t look so pleased to see them all again. Having Aunt Pallavi pinch his cheek for the fifth time in a row is worth it to see Mother happy. What’s more, after some time Aunt Indu says: “There she is! My daughter, Crown Princess,” and Mahendra turns around to find Avantika standing there, pale and shaking slightly as she stares at Mother. 

“Hello,” says Mother, but Avantika only gapes. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into her,” Aunt Indu says. “She’s never so quiet otherwise.” 

“That’s true,” Mahendra agrees. “Mother, this is my friend Avantika. She’s going to learn how to fight from you and become the best archer in the world someday.” He turns to Aunt Madhavi hopefully. “Could I have another _jamun_ fruit, please?” 

Mother smiles. “I would be delighted to have you,” she says gently, and Avantika turns bright red. 

“I am at your service, Crown Princess!” she breathes and kneels at Mother’s feet. 

Mahendra doesn’t think he’d know what to do when faced with such a proclamation, but Mother seems quite accustomed to this sort of thing. “I thank you,” she tells Avantika solemnly. “Now won’t you come and have something to eat?” 

Avantika still appears rather incredulous, but she obeys, finally overcoming her awe enough to nibble at a sweetmeat. She throws her arms around Mahendra later, which he takes to mean that she’s forgiven him for, apparently, deliberately convincing her he was a servant. Mahendra greets this information with the utmost indignation—even not-quite-princes, he is sure, don’t let themselves be mistaken for servants—but she refuses to believe otherwise. 

“Why else,” she tells him with a sniff, “would you be wearing such clothes?” and try as he might, Mahendra can’t convince her that clothes that don’t scratch uncomfortably and glint in the sunlight are much better than those that do. 

Mother is as good as her word, though; when she takes Mahendra out to supervise his skills, Avantika comes along, too. Mahendra has to admit that Avantika is very good; Mother finds very little fault with her, except telling her she has a bad habit of waiting too long to loose her arrow. Avantika even has a sword of her own, even though she’s younger than Mahendra is, and what’s more, is allowed to use it! Mahendra can’t help but catch his breath and ask Mother if he can’t have one, too, but: “Not until your father allows it,” Mother says, in a voice that brooks no disagreement. 

So when he has his lessons with Father that evening—since Father apparently doesn't think that being away from home means Mahendra should be able to shirk his practice—he begs to start learning how to use a sword, but Father shakes his head. "Not yet, Mahendra. Not until you're older." 

Which is entirely unfair, but all Mahendra can do is sulk and watch Mother correct Avantika’s footwork as she practices the first few positions and try to learn as much as he can only by observation. 

His ill temper can’t last long, though, not when there’s so much to see in Kuntala otherwise. If Mahendra’s favorite thing is to explore the palace with Avantika as his reluctant guide, and his second to practice his archery with Mother and Avantika, his third is without question to watch the weapon-makers at their work. The fletchers grow accustomed to his help in finding feathers to attach to the ends of their arrows, and Mahendra is delighted when they present him with a set of his own green-tipped arrows as thanks. The smithies are just as interesting, because they remind him of home and Gopu. Father is there, sometimes, overseeing their work, and he takes Mahendra aside and shows him how Kuntalan swords differ. The iron ore on this side of the mountains isn’t as strong as that in Mahishmati, he explains, and so instead the Kuntalans prepare their ore with bamboo charcoal and the blessings of sacred plants to make them just as durable. 

“You can see the difference from the patterns formed on the sword.” One of the smiths adds. “No two blades appear alike.” 

That part is true, too—Mahendra amuses himself by looking from one of the swords being forged to the next, peering to find the slightest difference between the two. With time, though, there are so many new swords made that he can’t keep track; but that is a good sign, too, because hadn’t Uncle Kumar said Kuntala needed more weapons? 

From the palace, Mahendra can see scaffolding, and that, Father says, is where the workers are making the walls around the kingdom even taller and stronger. The mountains protect one border, and the river another, and that leaves only two to build up, which means the work can be done more quickly. Mahendra wonders aloud if he shouldn’t go and help there, too, but Father only laughs and tells him he has more than enough to climb here in the palace. That much is true; one glorious day, Mahendra had managed to scale the very top of the palace and seen the entirety of Kuntala with his own eyes: a small puddle of green ringed by the mountains. It had been worth the scolding his parents had given him for it. 

At last the day arrives when Mother and Father determine that the soldiers have progressed enough to demonstrate their skills before Elder Uncle. From where Mahendra is sitting, Avantika to his side, they seem utterly changed: their movements more assured, their awareness of each other and their opponents heightened, and their weapons gleaming bright and new in the sun. Even Mother’s keen eye can’t find much to correct; he can hear the satisfaction in her voice as she calls out commands. At the end of their exhibition, Mahendra wants to shout with pride, except Father steps forward and quietly says: “One last challenge.” 

It’s an easy enough task: Father points out a mango dangling from a branch halfway up one of the trees. (“Ha!” scoffs Avantika. “I could hit that even from here.”) One by one, the soldiers are to take aim and tell Father whether or not they can shoot it down. 

Keshav goes first: Mahendra smiles his encouragement. He likes Keshav, who always has a wink and a grin for Mahendra and once even let Mahendra takes a few practice swipes with a sword when Mother looked elsewhere. Keshav closes one eye, which Mother always says is a bad habit but must not be so bad, because Keshav calls out that he has the target in his sight. 

Father doesn’t say anything, only waves him back, and the next soldier takes Keshav’s place. 

Mahendra is terribly pleased with all of them, because they all say that they can easily fulfill the challenge, but still Father doesn’t smile. Mahendra isn’t sure what concerns him; if anything, he should be so worried if they had been unable to. Perhaps he thinks one of them won’t be able to and that’s what has him looking so displeased. 

But at last even Sarala announces that she can hit the target, and Father, far from looking satisfied, calls for Mahendra to come down and try. Mahendra scrambles to his feet, conscious of everyone watching him. Keshav and Sarala and all the rest had managed well enough with just as much attention, though, and besides, it was an awfully easy target. 

Or at least it seems so at first. The tree Father indicates is even closer than the mango tree is to their cottage back home, the shot even more straightforward, but: 

Mahendra lowers his bow, ashamed and miserable. “I can’t,” he says. “I’m sorry.” 

Father lifts his eyebrows. “Why not, Mahendra?” 

Doesn’t he know? “There’s a sparrow-nest just below,” Mahendra tells him. He’d considered every angle he knew of, every second arrow that he could have shot, but in no circumstance can he see how to avoid sending the fruit tumbling into the nest, and the nest in turn, with its helpless chicks inside, crashing to the ground. Likely there was some trick of it that everyone had realized but he hadn’t. “I don’t know how to spare them.” 

Father’s eyes soften. “Well done, Mahendra,” he says quietly, putting his hands on Mahendra’s shoulders. Then, more loudly: “Any warrior can achieve his objective, given enough courage and determination; but only the wise stop to consider how doing so affects the innocents around them. You will have heard,” Father looks directly at the soldiers, “that to think of such things is your officers’ duty, and yours only to obey. You will have heard incorrectly. To take up arms is to take up the responsibility to use them wisely, no matter what your role. Above all else, remember that when you go to war.” 

In the wake of Father’s speech, Elder Uncle’s quiet dismissal of the army to their leisure seems almost an afterthought, but Mahendra doesn’t mind, because it means everyone returns to their business and Father, with Mother beside him, takes Mahendra up in his arms. 

“Is that really it?” Mahendra asks. “Is Kuntala all right? Is everything back to normal? Can we go back home?” 

Mother laughs. “And here I believed you were having such fun in Kuntala! What about your friend Avantika?” 

“I’ll miss her,” Mahendra has to admit. “But she could always come visit us! And then I could show her the quarry, because did you know she didn’t believe me when I told her Father’s wheel turned of its own power? She could meet Gopu, too, except I think she’d frighten him a bit, but that’s all right—“ 

“And is Avantika aware of these plans?” Father wants to know. 

“No,” says Mahendra blithely. “But she won’t mind, not as long as she gets to see Mother. But we have to go home first before she can visit us there!” 

Mother is just saying, “I’ll talk to my brother to see when a ship can be arranged,” when the horseman comes thundering through the gates. 

“Madhav?” Mother frowns. “What’s wrong?” 

The rider—and how strange, Mahendra thinks, it _is_ Madhav, but looking far more wide-eyed and frightened than Mahendra has ever seen him—dismounts to stagger closer to them. “Cr-Crown Princess! An—an army sighted crossing the mountains!” 

Father frowns and lets Mahendra down before stepping forward. “How many?” he demands. 

“At least thirty thousand strong,” says Madhav, and there is a new misgiving in his eyes as he studies the three of them that terrifies Mahendra even before his next words: “the full forces of Mahishmati.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's up! At last! Thank you all for being so very patient, first of all, and hopefully Chapter 7 is not a horrible disappointment and not worth the wait:) Other notes, as usual:
> 
> *Shashank and his brother Vrishank are first mentioned in "Sarduli," where Nitish has a brief cameo as one of Kumar Varma's childhood bullies (which, for those wondering, explains why neither Devasena or Kumar Varma seem too fond of him even in adulthood). We're not told a tremendous amount about Kuntalan politics, but I imagine that while more idyllic than Mahishmati's power struggles, Kuntala has its fair share of unpleasantness.
> 
> *Devasena's ladies-in-waiting have no canonical names provided, and once again, in Nidhana-canon, two of them (Pallavi and Madhavi) actually returned to Kuntala some time after Mahendra was born, which is why they are so astonished to see the change in him. For those wondering, Akhila's daughter is Vaishali, Avantika's rebel friend in the canon universe, but her brief cameo got cut as it didn't really add anything to the main plot.
> 
> *I reject a lot of supplementary canon about Mahishmati (if you guys want to hear my rant about why I think the Gauri-parvat coverup doesn't make sense in-universe, feel free to ask in comments, but otherwise I will spare you all :D ), but Mahishmati's weapons being stronger just plain makes sense and so I've kept that. The description of how Kuntala makes its swords is, as best as I can tell, a description of how Wootz steel actually was manufactured in ancient India.
> 
> * There's no actual indication that the Kuntalan army has female soldiers, and we certainly don't see any in canon. However, I feel like a country so accepting of its princess going into war would surely offer the same opportunity to other young girls (and certainly Devasena would have pushed for it while still Crown Princess!), so let's just pretend they were all conveniently off-screen, shall we?
> 
> *For anyone thinking that Amarendra's test has more than a little in common with Dronacharya's test of Arjuna (albeit with the exact opposite message), you are absolutely correct.


	8. Chapter 8

“I am certain,” says Father, “that a reasonable explanation can be found.” 

Mahendra can hardly believe that only an hour earlier, they were speaking of going back home, heroes before all Kuntala, just like Uncle Kumar had said. Now all he can see on the faces of those around him are frowns, and he knows without needing to ask that going home now is out of the question. He hugs his knees to his chest more tightly where he sits behind one of the grand white columns, and pretends that he isn’t hiding. 

“Of course,” says Elder Uncle, but his eyes are doubtful. 

"If Uncle informed us about what he had learned, it is not impossible that he might have shared that information with Mother and the King as well, and that they may have chosen to also send help.” 

This might, Mahendra thinks, be rather more convincing if Father sounded as though he believed his own words. 

"After the delay of a month?"demands Lord Shashank acidly. "Without sending prior word of their good intentions? Perhaps you have forgotten, but to send troops across a border without permission is unquestionably an act of war.” 

"You forget yourself," Mother warns quietly, and Lord Shashank steps back. 

"Forgive me, Crown Princess," he says, but then, to Elder Uncle: "I speak only the thoughts on the minds of all my countrymen and -women, Your Majesty. We would treat such an action on the part of any other country with the utmost misgiving. Why should Mahishmati be any different, simply because it has such advocates to speak for it?" 

"Misgiving is natural," agrees Father. "It's misunderstanding I hope to avoid." 

He turns to face the court. "I ask only for a meeting to understand their reasons for coming here before more extreme measures are taken, no more." 

"Any chance of avoiding bloodshed should never be missed," Elder Uncle says at last. "Send a messenger to the encampment as soon as it can be arranged." 

Lord Vrishank—as tall as his brother, but lacking even the pretense of pleasantness—scoffs. "And who will dare face the King and Queen Mother in their den, when even our royal family has never come out the better from their dealings with Mahishmati? Our Crown Princess in chains and cast from her rightful position, our noble Prince Kumar Varma narrowly escaping who knows what ignoble conspiracy—when even they face such outrages, what mere Kuntalan will approach them to treat for peace?” 

A terrible silence follows. Mahendra is glad for it; his throat has tightened and his stomach churned since he heard _Mother_ and _in chains_ and he thinks it would only grow worse if Lord Vrishank continued. 

“I take it,” Father says dryly, “that I would be the obvious candidate.” 

“And we thank you for it,” Elder Uncle says quickly. Mahendra has the distinct impression he wants this awful council to end as desperately as Mahendra does. “We will have a message sent to arrange for an interview in the morning.” 

Elder Uncle says this as quietly as he says anything else, but it has an air of finality to it. Slowly, the courtyard begins to empty. Out of the corner of his eye, Mahendra sees Avantika walking away beside her mother. He tries his best to catch her eye and give her his best attempt at a smile, but she looks down, frowning slightly. She’s not the only one. No one seems to want to look at him or Mother or Father, much less give them the wide smiles Mahendra had grown accustomed to. 

He doesn’t have much time to brood over this, however; Mother turns to him, and as briskly as ever, says: “Time for bed, Mahendra.” 

Getting ready for bed means they can be alone, and Mahendra is so grateful he doesn’t even protest that the sun has only barely set. It’s much quieter and calmer in their rooms; Mahendra dares venture, “Everyone is angry at us because we’re from Mahishmati, aren’t they?” 

“Don’t be silly,” Mother says, without much conviction. “They’re worried, that’s all.” 

Everyone in Kuntala was worried even before, Mahendra wants to point out, but that had been different. Then he and Mother and Father had been allowed to worry alongside them, accepted into Kuntala; now they are something alien and out of place. Mahendra opens his mouth to remind his parents, again, about how much he had wanted to go home, how maybe if it wasn’t too late— 

But if Father is wrong, and Mahishmati really is angry at Kuntala, then being back home wouldn’t have changed anything at all, except then everyone would avoid them because they were from Kuntala instead. How much more terrible would it be to have Seshu frown at them, and Gopu look away? 

He's not to worry about that, instructs Mother, when he tells her this; all that matters is that the three of them are together. Everything will be all right as long as that is so. 

Mahendra repeats that to himself as though it were a charm guaranteed to keep away ill fortune: as long as they are together, nothing truly awful can happen. His parents won't allow it, so long as they all stay together. No one's sneers or scowls or silences mean anything, not when what is important is that they are together. 

Mother and Father allow him to sleep tucked between them as he used to back in their cottage. That is a relief, because then he doesn’t have to worry about waking in the middle of the night to find one or both of them gone, especially with an army somewhere nearby. Just to be sure, though, he closes his eyes but forces himself to keep listening to the sounds of his parents’ presence: Mother testing her bow, the scratch of Father’s pen. 

Mahendra opens his eyes only once, after what seems like most of the night must have passed; but when he looks at the window, the moon hasn’t even risen yet. Mother and Father are still there, though, so that’s all right. Father is still frowning at his sketches, but Mother has moved to sit beside Mahendra on the bed. He curls up closer to her. 

“Who put you in chains?” he asks, too tired to think better of it. “Was it Grandmother? Or the King?” 

“It happened years ago,” Mother says, voice carefully toneless. “It doesn’t matter.” 

She hadn't said _no_ , Mahendra thinks miserably. 

“If they’re very angry at us, will they try to put you in chains again?” 

"No one," Father says shortly, "will put your mother in chains. Or you, for that matter. Go to sleep, Mahendra." 

Perhaps it's the uncharacteristic gruffness of Father's voice, or only the lateness of the hour, but Mahendra obeys. When he opens his eyes next, the sun is just rising and Mother is kissing his forehead. "We'll return soon, Mahendra," she says, and kisses his nose, too. "Don't worry." 

Before he really knows what's happening, the door closes behind her and Mahendra is alone. He scrambles his way out of the blankets, but it's too late. He isn’t sure exactly where the meeting between Mother and Father and Grandmother and the King is meant to be, but he knows he needs to be there, just in case things go badly wrong. He might not be old enough to use a sword yet, but he can kick and bite and shoot a bow. He'll do all that and more before he lets anyone hurt Mother or Father. He only needs to find them first. 

It’s at the inner wall of the palace that he realizes he’s being followed. He truly ought to have noticed earlier, but over the weeks, he has grown so accustomed to having servants follow him to make sure he isn’t doing anything he shouldn’t be that that he doesn’t recognize the sound of footsteps behind him. He slows; there’s no one in Kuntala he fears, but if there is an army outside its walls, and one of the King’s soldiers could have come inside…. 

“Well, don’t _stop_ ,” Avantika’s voice hisses in his ear, and he sags in relief. 

“It’s you,” he manages. “I thought—“ But to admit _I thought you were angry with us too_ seems far too embarrassing, so he only turns and smiles at her instead. “Do you know where Mother and Father are going?” 

Avantika looks smug. “Just inside the outer wall,” she says. “To the north. I told you, when I want to know something, I look and I listen until I find out. Unlike you.” 

She had been walking just behind Lord Shashank and Elder Uncle when he’d seen her earlier, Mahendra remembers, and he belatedly recognizes the frown she’d been wearing as one of concentration. He is guilty, he supposes, of misjudging her, but there’s no time to make it up now. That will have to wait. 

A pavilion has been constructed just below the outer wall, at such an angle that if Mahendra and Avantika crouch down by the battlements, they can hear and see everything without being noticed themselves. Mahendra thinks that might be for the best; he hasn’t forgotten the way the King looked at him with such intensity all that time ago, any more than how very sad seeing him made Grandmother. Obviously, if either of them saw him, it would make things more difficult for Father and Mother; his feelings have nothing at all to do with his own discomfort in facing them. 

The representatives from Mahishmati arrive slowly, ferried over in a boat provided by Kuntala itself. There are a tremendous many of them, and for an instant, Mahendra worries that there’s been a terrible mistake and it’s really an army. But they are all dressed in fine clothes, with no weapons on their person, and he calms. Last of all comes a white umbrella under which walk a man robed in pale gold and a woman all in blood red silk: the King and Grandmother. 

"Does he always dress like that?" asks Avantika, as though Mahendra is supposed to know just because he lives in the kingdom. "What an eyesore! Little wonder the Crown Princess wouldn't have him." 

Loyalty to Father makes Mahendra want to say Mother's refusal was probably for more than the ostentatiousness of the King's clothing, but before he can, Mother and Father approach. They seem as impossibly calm as they were in the throne room of Mahishmati what seems like an eternity ago. Only from the set of Father's shoulders and the way Mother holds her head too high can Mahendra guess that anything is wrong at all. 

"Mother," asks Father without preamble. "What is this?" 

"A fine question for you to pose, Baahu," sneers the King, but Father ignores him, looking instead intently at Grandmother. 

When she speaks at last, she seems very, very tired, even more so than the last time Mahendra had seen her. "I had not thought your desire to see your son in silks was so strong.” 

If that's the only problem, Mahendra is willing to give up wearing silks forever, since it offends Grandmother so; in fact, he'd be all too happy to do so. He only put them on because Aunt Sumitra wanted it so, and his old clothes are far more comfortable, anyway. Then Grandmother won't be angry, and she and the King will go home, which means so too can he and his parents. No one else seems to identified so easy a solution, though. 

Mother steps forward. "And what," her voice cool, "is he believed to have done in pursuit of such a goal?" 

"Conspired with the kingdom of Kuntala," replies the King in tones so grave Mahendra can't see how anyone finds him sincere, "to foment rebellion in the Malawa Islands and, that having failed, having fled to Kuntala to prepare for battle against Mahishmati." 

There is a long incredulous pause, before Mother turns to Grandmother once more. "Even you could not possibly believe such a ridiculous story," she snaps. "Kuntala is a country at peace that has no need to meddle in foreign affairs in such an underhanded manner. What proof have you to make such a claim?” 

"Proof," replies Grandmother at last, "is the responsibility of the accused to prove their innocence, not of those who bring crimes to light." 

"Be that as it may, Mother," says Father, "there must be some reason for an accusation to be made, particularly when it comes to diplomacy." His voice softens. "You taught me that. What is the reason for you to bring such charges against Kuntala?" 

“It is,” Grandmother begins, “no secret that Kuntala has benefited tremendously from the trade routes barred by the conflict with the Islands.” 

“It is,” Mother retorts indignantly, “no crime to do so. My brother noticed a need for goods to bypass the Islands’ embargo, and if they allowed Kuntalan ships to pass, that in no way caused their refusal to allow fleets bound to Mahishmati to come through. If you can do no better than that—“ 

“But it is,” interrupts the King, “ a crime to provide weapons and support to rebels aligned against Mahishmati.” He nods to one of his servants, who approaches with a wooden chest and lays it at their feet. “From an intercepted convoy sent from Kuntala.” 

The servant, kneeling, opens the chest to offer up first one silver sword, and then another. From his vantage point, Mahendra can see that the chest itself is full of swords, all similar to each other. Mother takes one of the swords, turning it over assessingly, and then returns it to peer at the next one presented to her. 

“They’re all very similar,” she says; Mahendra can hear the frown in her voice and, because he is listening so intently, even the catch in her voice when she turns to Father and adds: “and identical to a sword sent to Mahishmati eight years ago.” 

The King lifts his head so that the sunlight catches on his crown. “I can hardly be held responsible for a lack of originality on the part of Kuntalan workers, Devasena,” he tells Mother with clear relish. “A dozen expert sword-smiths have sworn that this is Kuntalan work, found aboard a Kuntalan vessel, from a country that bears us little love any more—what more must we hear to know how matters stand?” 

“The truth,” Father says flatly. “That Kuntala is innocent.” 

“And even if you won’t believe that,” Mother adds, “then you must see that Kuntala has nothing to gain from inciting a war we have no hopes of winning.” 

Grandmother lets out a short, unamused laugh. “An argument that lost its strength when Kuntala first dared return our generosity with insults and enmity. After all these years, I am familiar with Kuntalan foolhardiness.” 

Mother pauses. “Very well,” she says at last. “If I cannot convince you to see sense on behalf of my country, then so be it. But if you think Baahubali has betrayed Mahishmati in thought, much less in deed, you're even more foolish than I thought you.” 

“Foolishness,” says Grandmother, “would lie in ignoring the facts I see before me: that Amarendra Baahubali and his wife left Mahishmati to travel to a kingdom known to be acting against the interests of his own; that they were found to have aided them in their plots against Mahishmati and to built up their army in preparation for a final attack; that they are once more guilty of treason, this time not only against the noble legacy of Mahishmati but now also against its people.” 

Father reels back as though from a blow. “We were unaware of your suspicions, Mother. We were acting on a warning given us by Uncle--" 

"Poor Kattappa," says the King. "The cruelest cut of all. We are aware, Baahu, that you fed him false information to provide you an excuse to travel to Kuntala." 

"How--" 

"Your messages to Kattappa's man instructing the spy to take his ridiculous story to Kattappa, who was sure to repeat what he heard to you were found. Clever, really: you knew Kattappa would say anything in your defense, and all you had to do was give him the means to do it. The mistake was using the hawks to send your instructions: the quickest means to communicate, and the most discreet, but not without its own risks." 

Father laughs outright at that. "You suspect me for so little?" 

"And who else would be the birds be trained to obey?" Grandmother snaps. "How many hours did you and your brother spend in the mews, teaching the hawks to know you on sight? The treasonous messages were carried by the royal hawks, and in particular by the one trained to come to your hand; Uday, Commander of the Military Mews, has confirmed as much." 

Father looks sharply at one of the men who stand at the King's right hand; the stranger shuffles his feet but does not look up, and dimly Mahendra remembers the man who'd come to speak to Father the night the Crown Prince had been born. 

"The messages alone would be enough to condemn you," Grandmother says. "But combined with your actions otherwise--for years, the Royal Family of Kuntala has crossed our borders unannounced and unpermitted, and I supposed that they only came to see your son and excused their every offense. None but the Almighty can know what plots were made each time, what information exchanged--" 

"Mother." Father takes a step forward, and Grandmother is surprised into looking directly at him for the first time. "All of this is a mistake. You must know this to be true." 

Grandmother meets his gaze squarely, and Mahendra hopes and _hopes_ she'll agree, but when Grandmother speaks, it is to say: "What I know to be true assures me that Kuntala is no longer to be trusted. The question now is: are you?" 

She turns to Mother with what seems genuine curiosity. "Where will you stand, if the worst comes to pass?" 

Mother squares her shoulders. "When I was eight years old, I took an oath never to look away when Kuntala suffered. My other obligations I renounced, but that one? Never." 

"I would expect no less from you," replies Grandmother, and in anyone else, Mahendra might recognize the odd note in her voice as respect, but before he can puzzle that out, Grandmother's attention is fixed on Father again. 

"Amarendra Baahubali," she proclaims, in tones both deafening and dreadful: "A choice lies before you once more: prove your sincerity, perform your duty, and put down the forces of the enemies of Mahishmati! Or betray your true allegiance and turn your back on your motherland." Grandmother studies Father, and almost imperceptibly, her voice softens. "The decision is yours to make."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last: Chapter 8! For a while there, I wasn't sure if rewriting this chapter or real life and its pressures would wear me down first, but nevertheless I prevailed and things are much better now, happily:) Obviously an apology fic will be on its way at some point; feel free to make requests, as it's the very least I can do! Otherwise:   
> * Avantika's thoughts on Bhalla's wardrobe are not necessarily the author's own; however, as President of the Devasena Fan Club, and arguably the character in the entire series least interested in fashion (Pacha Bottesi aside), I reckon she is happy to bash Bhalla any chance she gets.   
> * Surely I'm not the only one who wondered if Devasena's sword, which she sent to Mahishmati as part of her insulting counter-proposal, would ever make a comeback during the movie? (Obviously not, but I perceive Bhalla as petty enough to use it against her anyway.)  
> * The hawks....Well. I beg everyone's pardon for info-dumping in the endnotes instead of potting it into the story more organically, but: with regards to the hawk that pops up out of nowhere to deliver Sivagami's orders to Amarendra in canon, that makes....absolutely no sense. Homing pigeons only carry messages from one location to the next, and certainly have no ability to track down an individual in the middle of nowhere. From this, I expect, we can gather that our beloved Baahubali universe not only includes flexible laws of physics but also dodgy avian biology and behavior! So, instead I imagine that the hawks of Mahishmati are trained to find individuals wherever they may be and deliver messages; however, this takes hours and hours of teaching, with the recipient of the messages needing to spend long hours so the bird is familiar with him/her, and they are "coded" to only one person per bird. This uses up so much time and resources that these hawks are reserved only for members of the royal family or very high ranking officials (or: much like the tunnels in canon, this is another royal family only privilege to facilitate an accusation against Amarendra.)  
> * Much like Chapter 2, my intent is to keep Sivagami mistaken but understandably so; therefore, if anything sounds off from her perspective, I would be very, very grateful if you let me know!


	9. Chapter 9

Not a soul speaks, or sighs, or even breathes, until at last Father looks up and says, “I will do my duty.” 

Mahendra stares, aghast. This is not at all what it means to stay together. And what is more, if Mother is for Kuntala, and Father’s duty binds him to Mahishmati, what does that mean for Mahendra? He can no more choose between Father and Mother, or Gopu or Avantika, or Mahishmati or Kuntala, then he could between the stars in the sky—and so he will belong to neither of them. 

Beside him, Avantika’s eyes narrow. “How dare—“ she snaps, but just then Father speaks again. 

“I will do my duty,” Father repeats, and Mahendra’s throat goes tight, “just as you taught it to me years ago, Mother, when you told me that I was never to follow orders blindly instead of thinking for myself; that to take up arms is to take up the responsibility to use them wisely; that it was a warrior’s duty to protect the innocent above all. I will do my duty and protect Kuntala because to do otherwise would dishonor you and your wisdom, Mother.” 

Mahendra sags with relief. Dimly, he can see the King standing below turn expectantly to Grandmother, throwing his drape over his arm in a gesture born of either anger or triumph; but Grandmother only stays very still and says, “So be it.” 

She addresses Mother instead: “You may tell your brother that Mahishmati is prepared to show mercy: all we ask is that Kuntala yield any trading arrangements it has made in favor of Mahishmati, provide Mahishmati with a yearly tribute equivalent to the losses incurred from the Malawa Rebellion, and allow the presence of our troops in Kuntala until such time that we can guarantee stability. Only this, and we will accept Kuntala’s unconditional surrender.” 

“Only this, and you will have rendered us friendless, penniless, and only another jewel in your empire,” says Mother. “Kuntala respectfully refuses.” 

“Such terms are generous in the face of such betrayal as Kuntala has dealt us,” Grandmother replies. “Think carefully on what peace is worth.” 

“Peace is worth many things, Mother, but not worth accepting false accusations,” says Father quietly. “Nor is it worth ignoring what is right and just.” 

Grandmother looks away. “Then our negotiations have come to an end,” she announces. “Allow us a day to recover from our travel; then may the gods determine justice on the battlefield.” 

“Mother—“ says Father, but too late; Grandmother begins to walk away, and she does not look back. Mahendra watches her go, feeling not a little guilty. _Your son in silks,_ Grandmother said, and perhaps seeing him as he is now, in his ordinary clothes, would have helped calm her anger. If only he had been a little braver, if only he has stepped out and said something— 

“So that’s the Queen Mother Sivagami,” Avantika hisses in his ear. “She’s as scary as Mother always said.” 

Mahendra frowns a little. “She’s my grandmother,” he reminds her. 

“Of course she is.” Avantika seems hardly dissuaded by this. “That doesn’t change the fact that she is as sour as old milk. If you knew the stories Mother can tell about her— 

“Your mother?” He can’t see what Aunt Indu and Grandmother could possibly have to do with each other from Kuntala and Mahishmati respectively, any more than he can see them getting along. Aunt Indu might not be as outspoken as Aunt Akhila, but she is just as bossy in her own way as everyone else he has ever met from Kuntala. That doesn’t seem to be something Grandmother cares for. 

Avantika huffs. "She was one of the Crown Princess's ladies-in-waiting, I told you. She sailed to Mahishmati with the Crown Princess and stayed with her. She says there is no roof wide enough to be worth sharing with Sivagami in a rage, even be it that of a palace." 

"Mother didn't live in the palace," Mahendra corrects. "She married Father instead." 

"Don't be ridiculous, of course she--" But a flicker of movement draws Avantika's attention instead. "The Crown Princess is leaving," she announces. "Won't she come looking for you?" 

_We'll return soon_ , Mother had said. Mahendra scrambles to his feet, intent on slipping back into their rooms before his parents realize he's missing. Now of all times, he thinks they will be disappointed and angry if he makes them worry. He doesn't care to find out what their exact reaction might be. He looks at Avantika apologetically, sorry to leave her behind, but she only shoos him onward. 

The afternoon he spent exploring all the rooftops of the palace was time well spent, he decides as he drops onto the balcony of their rooms and dives under the covers of the bed, just as he hears Mother's footsteps at the door. If she's surprised to find him still asleep so late in the morning, it is quickly replaced by concern to find him sweating and short of breath. She places a hand to his forehead, frowning, and says, “Mahendra, you haven’t taken ill?” 

“It’s only because I’m--worried,” Mahendra manages to say, in no mood to choke down one of her draughts for fever. He sits up, arranging the covers so she won’t notice his shoes. “I’m better now.” 

“So I see,” murmurs Mother, and plucks a leaf from his hair. “Only imagine how you would feel if you listened to your mother for once.” 

There is no ruse clever enough to fool Mother for long; Mahendra abandons the pretense and stares up at her helplessly. “Father was wrong,” he says, as impossible as it it seems. Father has never been wrong, not as long as Mahendra can remember, but he was wrong about this: Mahishmati is angry at them. Grandmother is angry at them. 

“He was,” Mother agrees, voice calm. Noticing Mahendra’s expression, she adds: “Your father sees people only as their best selves. Sometimes they can live up to his expectations; more often they cannot.” 

“The man Uday,” says Mahendra. “He came to our house. He lied about Father, didn’t he? Why did he lie?” 

“He did,” confirms Mother. “And as to why—the usual reasons, I suppose, money or position or threats. Bhallaladeva is skilled at making things appear as they are not.” 

“Like the swords? You said there was something wrong about the swords.” 

Mother lets out a short, surprised laugh. “I had hoped that I would have more time before I’d have to explain my past mistakes to you.” She looks away. “I sent that first sword to Mahishmati years ago to refuse a proposal.” 

“The King’s proposal,” Mahendra guesses. “Because you wanted to marry Father instead.” 

Mother’s smile is rueful. “Your father had nothing at all to do with it. I thought only to anger those who had angered me. And as you can see, I was successful.” She sighs. “I’ve wondered since how much would have been different had I not.” 

Not that much, as far Mahendra can judge. Mother already assured him that she would never have married the King, which means she would have still married Father and had Mahendra, and they would still be living in their safe small cottage back home. 

“But if the King is lying,” he says instead. “Why can’t Grandmother see that?” 

Mother is silent for a moment. “I believe she can,” she says at last. “But when one has been alone and angry for so long, it is easier to close your eyes to everything but that which angers you.” 

“I don’t understand,” Mahendra says. Grandmother said she was angry about Kuntala helping the rebels in the Malawa Islands, which wasn’t true, and that Father had helped Kuntala, which wasn’t true either, at least not the way Grandmother meant it. And if what Mother said was true, Grandmother knew that already—then what else did she have to be angry about? Except whatever it was that had so enraged her had to do with Mahendra: he had been the first thing she had mentioned, after all. 

A terrible possibility occurs to him: one he shuts away in the dark corners of his mind because he cannot bear to consider it any more. 

“You hardly have to, Mahendra,” says Mother. “It’s not your concern. Now. Need I remind you that come tomorrow, I expect you will know better than to sneak away by yourself without telling anyone in this fashion?” 

“I wasn’t by myse—“ 

“Taking Avantika with you doesn't make it better. If anything, putting her in danger as well makes it worse." 

"It was her idea," Mahendra grumbles, and Mother raises her eyebrows. With a sigh, Mahendra corrects himself: "It was her idea just the same as mine. But I won't do it again." 

"Good," says Mother, rising to kiss the top of his head. 

She has duties elsewhere, he knows, important ones, but he cannot help but reach out for her. "If there's a war, does that mean you and Father will have to fight?" 

"We could hardly do otherwise." 

Mahendra bites his lip. Shooting at mango trees is one thing; fighting in a war quite another. ”Aren’t people—hurt in wars?" he ventures. They aren’t just _hurt_ , he knows, but anything worse happening to Mother and Father is unthinkable. 

"Have you no faith in your father and me?" Mother tells him briskly. "I told you there's no need for you to worry." 

That's not enough to satisfy him; he holds out his hand to her, palm up. "Do you promise?" 

Mother hesitates for a moment before placing her hand over his. "No matter what happens, your father and I will always be with you. That I swear to you.” 

A solemn oath can never be broken; Mahendra knows that much. He lets go, and Mother slips away to do whatever it is she has to do to prepare for the coming morning. 

It’s tempting to stay back in their rooms, and wallow in homesickness, and _wish_ Grandmother had only listened; but Mahendra knows there’s no time for that. If everyone else is busy with their work, so too must he be. So he settles in the armory, helping to prepare bowstrings with beeswax. It is not difficult work, or, he supposes, very important. Thanks to Mother, though, it’s work he knows how to do well. Faintly he hopes that if he can only be helpful enough, it might keep everyone from studying him with those thin-lipped expressions. 

That is where Father finds him by evening, a small mountain of bowstrings beside him. Fewer, really, than Mahendra had hoped to have completed, but over the course of the day, some of the other soldiers working in the armory had unbent enough to look approvingly at him, and one or two had even smiled at him again. That will have to be enough, though. Father is here to collect him, war or no war, for his lessons. 

At first Mahendra is tempted to ask if he can’t have a sword to use in the war: he is, after all, older than the last time he asked, just as Father said. But something about the set of Father’s mouth dissuades him, not to mention the weariness in Father’s eyes. Better to wait until Father isn’t so worried, he decides; besides, if Mahendra doesn’t ask, Father can’t say no. 

When his lesson is over, Father reaches out and ruffles Mahendra’s hair rather distractedly, before telling him that Aunt Sumitra should have dinner ready soon at the south pavilion. To Mahendra, who hadn’t left the armory since the morning, not even for the noontime meal, even the idea of dinner is enough to make his mouth water, but Father apparently doesn’t intend to join him. Instead Father begins to walk towards the gates of the palace, as unconcerned and as certain as ever. 

Mahendra frowns and follows as closely as his shadow, until Father looks down and lets out a short laugh. “Mahendra!” 

“Where are you going?” Mahendra demands. “Is it dangerous?” It must be, he thinks. The King is beyond the gates, with all his army. Grandmother is beyond the gates. 

“Not at all. I don’t mean to go far. Go find your Aunt Sumitra, and I will be there before they bring out the second course.” 

“I want to come with you,” Mahendra says. 

When Father says his name this time, it sounds rather more exasperated, but Mahendra refuses to let that dissuade him. He raises his chin. “If it’s not dangerous, and it’s not too far, then I should be able to come with you if I want to, and I do. And if it is dangerous and it is too far, you shouldn’t be going, either.” He gives Father the most serious look he can muster: this is important. 

But Father doesn’t seem to appreciate any of this. Instead his eyes glint with sudden amusement, replacing the sadness that was there before; he says gravely, “Every time I believe you can’t resemble your mother more, I am proven wrong.” Which makes Mahendra beam with pride, but even more welcome are Father's next words: “Come along, then.” 

They’ve gone some distance before Mahendra thinks to ask, “Why are we going….wherever it is we are going?” 

“To meet someone,” replies Father, and, noticing Mahendra opening his mouth, adds: “Who won’t at all mind if you are there, too. I imagine it will be an unexpected delight.” 

“Why do we have to go so far to see them?” 

“For convenience’s sake,” Father says, “on both sides.” 

“Do they know there’s a war? It seems silly to want to meet so far away when there’s a war going on.” 

“They know,” says Father, or at least that’s all that Mahendra hears, because they come upon a clearing, wide and verdant, and there, in its center, waits— 

“Grandfather!” Mahendra shrieks and bounds forward. Grandfather’s expression lightens as he sees Mahendra, at first with surprise, and then with happiness, and he swings Mahendra up as though nothing’s changed at all. So it takes Mahendra a moment to remember everything that has happened, everything that he must explain. 

“The King said that Father sent the letter to tell you to tell us to go to Kuntala, but that’s all wrong! And he said that we were helping Kuntala, and that Kuntala was helping the bad people in the Malawa Islands, except he lied about that too. And now Grandmother wants to have a war because of all the terrible things he said, but you mustn’t believe him, too, Grandfather, because the King is lying and Father never lies!” 

Mahendra pauses to take a great gasp of breath but Grandfather, fortunately, seems far more willing to believe him than Grandmother was to believe Father. “All too well do I know this, Mahendra,” he says. “All too well.” Grandfather looks at Father. “You received my message, Baahu?” 

The corners of Father’s mouth turn up. “I haven’t fought a battle yet without asking for your advice before it begins, Uncle,” he says simply. “I see no reason why this should be the first.” 

“Very well.” Grandfather sets Mahendra down. “Before all else, I offer this: do not allow yourself to be lured away from safety by someone you have no reason to trust.” 

“I could never be in danger from you,” Father says dismissively, and Mahendra wants to agree. What harm could Grandfather, whose eyes shine with happiness to see Father, who comes to visit their cottage so often he almost seems to belong there, who held Mahendra in his hands as soon as he was born, ever bear to cause any of them? 

But: “Not from me,” agrees Grandfather, “but Mahishmati’s servant is helpless against his orders, _any_ orders he may receive. I did not raise you to be so foolish, Baahu.” 

Father says nothing. On instinct, Mahendra steps closer to him and takes his hand. 

“Secondly,” says Grandfather, “it has been some years since I was last in Kuntala. Its terrain is now entirely unfamiliar to me, its defenses unknown—much to the King’s frustration, you see.” 

Father is smiling once again. “An old man’s flagging memory,” he drawls. “Wiser not to rely on such a feeble thing.” 

“That memory has forgotten more than you will ever know, Baahu,” Grandfather retorts without any real anger. It is only a joke, the same joke that Father and Grandfather have shared as long as Mahendra can remember. The familiarity of it is a relief. 

“And—lastly—” Grandfather bends down to meet Mahendra’s gaze. “If I were to number my regrets as to what you have been given and what you deserve….” Grandfather trails off. “But one promise at least I can fulfill for you. This old man has some say in that matter, at least.” 

Those last few words, and the emphasis with which Grandfather says them, awakens some dim memory in Mahendra’s mind, but it’s gone as quickly as he thinks of it. Father, though, straightens suddenly as though this means something to him, something for which he nods and says, “I understand. Thank you, Uncle.” 

“My hands are bound to keep them from joining you,” Grandfather says miserably. “My blessings are not. They are always with you.” 

“Of course.” Father forces a smile. “We’ll see each other soon.” 

As they walk back to the palace of Kuntala, Mahendra asks, “Is Grandfather going to fight for Mahishmati?” A foolish question, he knows; he’s always been told that Grandfather is the general of the army, and generals always fight, but he hopes, just this once, that Grandfather can make an exception. He doesn’t want to have to worry about Grandfather, too. 

But: “He will,” confirms Father. 

Another thought occurs to Mahendra. “Will he have to fight you?” 

“Perhaps.” 

Mahendra comes to a stop, appalled. “But he taught you!” 

“As your mother and I trained three-quarters of the soldiers remaining in the Mahishmati army,” says Father, not without some irony, “and now, all the soldiers in the Kuntalan army.” 

Mahendra looks down, ashamed. For everyone that he has to worry about, it seems as though Father and Mother have to worry about even more people. Worrying just about everyone he loves leave him drained and unhappy enough; to add even more is impossible even to imagine. “Isn’t there a way to keep everyone safe? To just--just make everyone stop fighting?” 

“If so,” says Father grimly, “there is not much in our power to effect it. It’s difficult to distract a man bent on fighting from what he sees as his duty.” 

_Perhaps he’s found that people are less likely to argue if they’re distracted_ , Mahendra recalls Mother saying weeks earlier with sudden clarity. And that was true, wasn’t it? When Mahendra had been subjected to Lord Shashank’s awful perfume, he hadn’t been able to think of anything but filling his lungs with fresh air--certainly not of hurting anyone else. 

“I think,” he says hesitantly, “that there might be a way.” 

But it’s not until the next morning, crouching on the outer walls once again with Avantika and peering down at the enormous army gathered around them, that Mahendra finally remembers the memory Grandfather’s words had brought to mind: Grandfather smiling down at him, declaring, _And if this old man has any say in the matter, you’ll ride on one_. 

As if to punctuate Grandfather’s promise, there comes a sudden sound, the most wonderful sound in the world, like a thousand _kombus_ and _nadaswarams_ played all together; and on the horizon, Mahendra sees a crowd of creatures with curved gray backs, long lean trunks, and gold-tipped tusks. 

“Oh,” breathes Mahendra, torn between terror and not a little delight, _“Elephants_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to poor kaadhu, who's been waiting for this particular plot development for at least the last few chapters! Otherwise, a heartfelt apology for taking so SO long with this chapter, but on the plus side, we're in the home stretch now, friends, and the plot should be clipping along much more easily. Otherwise (brief, for once) end notes follow:
> 
> * Devasena's promise to Mahendra exists because if we can't have our third significant canon oath (for reference, please see sharme/@queenofmahishmati's brilliant graphic [here](http://jaimahishmathi.tumblr.com/post/165828201361/queenofmahishmati-baahubali-navarathiri)!), it occurred to me we needed a replacement in the Nidhana-verse. 
> 
> *The nadaswaram and kombu are both traditional Indian instruments. 
> 
> *The lines of dialogue Mahendra belatedly remembers can be found in Chapter 7 and in Chapter 2, in that order.


	10. Chapter 10

The trouble really starts earlier that morning, when Mahendra wakes up before the dawn to the sound of his parents arguing. 

They aren't terribly obvious about it: their words waft low and measured from the adjoining room where Mahendra has been sleeping, the one that used to be Mother’s once. He thinks they must not have wanted to disturb him. But Mahendra has spent all of his life with his parents, and he knows every shade and timbre of their voices like his own. He tucks his knees to his chest and listens. 

“....can’t lose both of us,” Father is saying firmly. 

“I don’t disagree,” snaps Mother. “What I fail to see is why you, who are so fond of fulfilling your duty, seem to think I should turn my back on mine.” 

“Devasena—” 

“Kuntala may be my home no longer, but I owe it a debt for the years it sheltered and nurtured me that you do not share. I can hardly repay that obligation by wringing my hands and waiting for the war to be over; the only way I know to do so is by fighting on the front lines as I always have.” Mother pauses. “Besides, if my brother intends to relinquish all questions of strategy to you, it’s best if you remain back. There’s no reason it must be me.” 

“I would spare you this fight, were it possible,” says Father at last. 

A pause, and Mother’s tone gentles. “And I _you_ ,” she begins, but Father must silently express his disagreement, because her voice sharpens once more, “if your hardheadedness didn’t make it impossible!” 

Mahendra half-hopes the argument ends with both of them deciding not to fight, but that seems impossible to expect. That decision was made when Grandmother and the King decided to go to war: all Mahendra can do is try to bear it as best as he can. 

Which reminds him of the idea born in his mind the evening previous and carefully nurtured through the night, as Mother sang him to sleep as though nothing was wrong and Father adjusted the blankets around him so that they were just right. He doesn’t think he’ll have any better opportunity than now to put it into action: his parents are distracted enough, at least for the time being, not to notice if he slips out. 

And besides, it’s really only a short journey to Lord Shashank’s chambers, not at all long enough for anyone to object. The guards have all been asked to join the army instead of maintain their usual posts, and so the hallways are empty. Even the few servants who haven’t been dismissed to seek shelter with their families pay Mahendra hardly any attention as he pads down the corridors. 

Lord Shashank opens the door yawning, muttering something about thrashing whoever disturbed him at such an hour, but his expression warms when he sees Mahendra. “Little Prince,” he says. “What an honor.” 

“I’m not a prince,” Mahendra has to remind him, yet again, “but thank you for seeing me anyway.” 

He might not bother for all the good it does. “And how,” Lord Shashank bows far too low, “might I be of service?” Lord Shashank has always been accommodating in a manner that makes Mahendra uneasy, and now at last, he has some use for it. 

Mahendra clears his throat. “I was wondering about your perfume,” he says. “I heard—my uncle said you make it yourself.” 

Lord Shashank preens. “I do, indeed. Each bloom plucked by my own hands and prepared with the utmost precision, Little Prince. The distillation itself takes months.” His smile fades. “But that cannot be all you mean to ask.” 

“It’s not.” Mahendra straightens, trying not to betray his nervousness. Mother wouldn’t falter at all; she would know what she needed and ask for it without the slightest fear. He can do no less. “I wanted to know if I might borrow some.” 

Lord Shashank frowns. “Some?” 

He hadn’t said _no_. Mahendra’s smile grows. “Or all you have remaining of it,” he commands, head high and voice imperious. 

Minutes later, Mahendra departs, Lord Shashank’s enormous flask of distilled perfume tucked safely under his arm. Once he’s far enough not to worry about making a fool of himself, Mahendra opens the flask up to take an experimental sniff—and regrets it immediately. The smell is just as terrible as he recalls; but that, he reminds himself, is a good thing now. Or at least he hopes so. 

The court physician’s chambers are his next stop. Unlike Lord Shashank, that man is already awake and dressed. There are bags under his eyes, and he already seems worried, which makes Mahendra wonder until he remembers that the physician must be responsible for taking care of every wounded soldier today. Mahendra thinks helping Mother is a lot of work, and that’s only one or two injured people at a time; he can’t imagine taking care of more. That renders him shy and stammering, but fortunately the physician is a kinder man than Lord Shashank. He listens to Mahendra’s explanation, and if he doesn’t seem entirely convinced, doesn’t seem to reject it outright either. 

“Any port in a storm is to be praised,” he says, shrugging. “Take whatever you need.” 

That is enough encouragement for Mahendra to help himself to all the vials that the physician can spare: rather fewer than he would have like, and mismatched, but all made of fine clear glass, and that is all that matters. 

Then there’s nothing for it but the most unpleasant part, which is pouring out the perfume as carefully as he can into the little vials. Mahendra has to wrap a cloth around his nose and breathe carefully through his mouth to manage it without coughing, and he knows he must look ridiculous. 

He doesn’t really care, though, until he hears “What are you doing?” and looks up to find Avantika peering down at him. She coughs and adds, “With Lord Shashank’s _awful_ perfume, too.” 

Mahendra looks up hopefully. “You don’t like it, either, do you?” he confirms cautiously. “It’s not only me?” 

“No,of course not ” says Avantika, appearing vaguely insulted, “but that still doesn’t explain why you have so much of it.” 

“I had an idea,” Mahendra begins, and then considers that even if his plan works, it might be nice to have help. He begins replacing the vials, now full, into the leather bag that the court physician had loaned him. “But I can tell you about it on the way up to the walls.” 

By the time they reach the outer wall, the sun has risen. Mahendra spares a moment to feel guilty about what his parents might think to find to him gone. But surely even if their argument was over already, they would be too busy with getting ready for the battle ahead to think to scold him. Most likely, they wouldn’t even notice that he was missing. True, he promised Mother that he wouldn’t sneak away, but this isn’t sneaking: this is taking care of important business. Mother will understand when he explains, he is sure— 

Then he makes the mistake of looking down from the walls. 

Below wait more soldiers—more _people_ than he has ever seen before in his life. It’s at least ten times the entire population of his village and five times as many people he has met in Kuntala: Mahendra’s stomach churns. Beside him, Avantika takes a shallow breath. 

“The courage of Kuntala,” she says bracingly, “can face a thousand armies.” This, Mahendra thinks, sounds perfectly splendid but doesn’t say anything about _defeating_ said armies, which he thinks is probably the important part. He wonders if Grandfather is somewhere in the midst of the soldiers below, and if Mahendra will be able to pick him out, to make sure he is unharmed. But of course Grandfather would be; he has fought in a thousand battles, Father always says, and didn’t he speak of fighting in the Malawa Islands when they had gone to visit him at the palace? 

Indeed he had, only shortly after promising that Mahendra would see elephants someday, and that is when Mahendra hears their approach on the battlefield at last. 

Their trunks and ears and tails all sway when they walk: that is what Mahendra notices first. And next how very large they are, just as he had always imagined! He could see anything at all standing on their backs, Mahendra gauges, which makes them even better than Gopu had described, and Mahendra loves them at once. They might even, he decides generously, have as much claim to his heart as the goats they have back home. 

“ _Those_ are elephants?” Avantika asks. Her voice shakes, and Mahendra turns to look at her, confused. She doesn’t seem excited at all. 

“Aren’t they wonderful?” he says, unable to keep from smiling. 

“They’re enormous!” She looks as though this should be obvious. “How do you stop them?” 

And only then Mahendra remembers that the glorious elephants are on the other side. It’s horribly unfair, and confusing, too, because the other side is _home_ , after all, and it’s awful that the King has taken that from him, along with Grandmother and Grandfather and now elephants, too. But Avantika is right, as little as he wants to think about it. Worst of all, he has to admit, if only to himself, that he hasn’t the slightest idea how one defends against them, or how they felt about Lord Shashank’s terrible perfume. Can elephants even smell things? They have such very strange noses, Mahendra thinks, and loses himself in admiring them once more. 

Except Avantika is still looking at him expectantly. Mahendra clears his throat, rather regretting bragging so much about being familiar with elephants earlier. The only thing that comes to mind is Grandfather’s story about the queen and the mad elephant, but Father had interrupted before he could finish and explain how it had been stopped. At least Mahendra assumes the elephant must have been stopped; the alternative would make for a rather poor ending to the tale. 

“Well,” he says, feeling rather like Abhimanyu must have when someone asked him how to exit the _chakravyuham_ , “obviously the answer is—“ 

“Mahendra!” 

He has never been so happy to hear Father’s voice before, even if it’s a disapproving rumble. If Father is here, Father will think of something; Father always does. 

“I didn’t sneak off!” Mahendra blurts out before Father can say anything. “I was going to come right back before anyone noticed and—and did you see, there are elephants!” 

“None of which will make any difference to your mother,” Father warns, but the corners of his mouth turn upwards regardless. Mahendra relaxes, before he realizes what Father being here must mean. 

His heart sinks. “Is she down there?” 

“We’ll see her when we return,” Father replies reassuringly. He squeezes Mahendra’s shoulder, and Mahendra recovers enough to ask the next question brewing on his mind. 

“How do you stop elephants?” 

“With difficulty,” says Father dryly. “There are not very many courses of action possible. You can kill its driver, send spears into its hide in hopes that one will strike true—“ 

Mahendra stares, horrified. “You can’t _hurt_ them!” 

“You can if they’re about to hurt you,” snaps Avantika. “If there’s no other choice.” 

Mahendra opens his mouth, ready to argue back in defense of the lives of the elephants, but Father interrupts before a quarrel breaks out. “Fortunately, there is another alternative. I know most of the drivers and trainers: they are as protective of their charges as you are, Mahendra. If they suspect there’s any danger of them panicking, they’ll argue to remove them from the field of battle before they can stampede and cause harm to both sides.” 

“What would make a creature like that panic?” Avantika asks, a little nervously. “Something even worse?” 

It’s not a bad question—and moreover, Mahendra can’t imagine that even if it were some special weapon, that Kuntala should have it in its possession. Hadn’t the problem been that it didn’t have enough weapons, least of all those to defeat an animal that did not care for Kuntala’s landscape to deal with. 

“Not at all.” Father tells her calmly. “It’s nothing more than—“ 

He’s interrupted by the clang of metal and a shrill squeal. A large dark shadow, then another, and another appear in the distance, and Avantika’s eyes widen. Mahendra, though, whose eyes are fixed on the elephants still, notices that their riders all stiffen as one. 

“Boars,” finishes Father with some satisfaction, but neither of them pay much attention. Things are changing too quickly: the boars rustle through the grass, too far away for the elephants to notice but too close for their riders to ignore. Mahendra can hardly believe that elephants would be frightened by something so much smaller, but it seems they must. He supposes he can forgive them so silly a weakness: everyone must have one, after all. 

Before Mahendra’s fascinated eyes, the lead elephant driver throws down a tube to one of the soldiers at the elephant’s feet; the soldier opens it to reveal a scroll that he scans and passes on to a superior, who sends it along to his superior in turn. Within moments, a horn blows and the elephants begin to retreat backwards; Mahendra hates to see them go, but must admit to some relief that they won't hurt anyone fighting for Kuntala or be hurt in return.

But that is not the end of the battle, Mahendra knows: the wall of soldiers from Mahishmati still rings around the walls of Kuntala, implacable and insurmountable. As the elephants withdraw, the soldiers fill the holes created in their ranks and begin to raise their weapons. 

He looks to Father, to see if Father has some other idea to stop them as he had the elephants, but Father is only frowning. That means, Mahendra thinks, that it might be time to share the plan he’s prepared so carefully. 

“Lord Shashank’s perfume?” Father repeats as Mahendra explains, lifting up a vial bemusedly. He opens it and instantly coughs; Father, like Mahendra, seems far more sensitive to the acrid, unpleasant scent that anyone else seems to be, but nevertheless, he thinks it will be enough. At least Father seems to think so, too—he starts to smile.

“Perhaps, Lady Avantika,” Father asks courteously, “you might recruit some of the other children in the palace to help?” 

Avantika obeys and by the time the battle starts in earnest, there is a small crowd of children gathered on the wall. Mahendra explains what they must do once again, Father having disappeared to meet with Elder Uncle, but it’s simple enough to remember: whenever they see a skirmish breaking out, they should throw one of the vials in the midst until the attacking soldiers retreat. Mahendra isn’t sure how it will work at first, but against all hope, the first wave of soldiers in Mahishmati colors fall back, and then the next, and the next. 

By mid-afternoon, the forces from home have more or less given up in disgust, and not a minute too soon, too. Mahendra stops in mid-throw, the last vial he has still held in his hand, and lets out a tiny cheer. Kuntala is safe, Mother is safe, and Grandfather and all the people on Mahishmati’s side, too: Mahendra could wish for nothing more, except maybe that the elephants might come back in peace this time. 

But none of the other children share his exhilaration and Mahendra can’t help but frown. It takes all the pleasure out of it if he is the only one jubilant. Maybe they’re only tired, he wonders, and tucks the last vial in his belt as he sidles over to Avantika. 

”What’s wrong?” he hisses. “They’re gone!” 

”For now,” she points out. “But who knows when they’ll come back, or what we should do then.” She scowls. “What’s wrong with your father? I thought his plan would destroy them all. Instead he’s let them all live to come back and fight us another day.” 

“It is _not_ ,” Mahendra snarls, “his fault. He didn’t hurt them because it was the right thing to do.” 

Avantika crosses her arms. “The right thing to do,” she snaps, “would be to do his duty and defeat all the enemies of Kuntala, no matter what personal ties bind him.” 

Mahendra’s stomach grows leaden. “My grandfather fights on the other side,” he retorts. “He could never be my enemy. Or Father’s.” 

”Well, he can certainly be Kuntala’s enemy,” Avantika says, and suddenly he’s reminded of how he watched the elephants with such awe where Avantika saw only a threat. “Or do you think all those soldiers under his command are there just to frighten us?” 

”That doesn’t matter,” Mahendra insists. “He’s still Grandfather. He told us about the elephants, when Father and I went to go see him last night.” 

He knows he has made a mistake when Avantika sucks in a sharp breath and flinches away from him as though burned. 

”If that’s so,” she says icily, “then whose side is your father on, anyway? Not to mention you.” 

And it’s then, as Mahendra looks at her eyes, narrowed with mistrust, that he really understands the trouble they’re in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this chapter would not be posted at all without the fabulous Maya/parlegee/weaslayyy, who gave me the push I needed to stop my childish wallowing in how unhappy I was with this chapter, even to the point of posting a new chapter of "nayaki," which is amazing and you should all read it right now! :) But thank you so SO much, friend--that was exactly the tough love I needed!  
> Other notes:  
> * For anyone wondering if Amarendra’s comeback to Devasena's last comment was to incredulously inquire if she was actually calling someone else hardheaded with a straight face, you are probably correct! (Needless to say, this did not help him win the argument at all.)  
> * Abhimanyu and his incomplete learning of the _chakruvyuham_ in utero is one of the classic folktales associated with the _Mahabharata_ ; as cleverer people than I have pointed out, Shivu/Mahendra is already linked to this story in canon with the shared palm-tree catapult that both he and his father use independently.  
> * Believe it or not, [war pigs](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/War_pig) are an actual thing! (link goes to Wikipedia). I'm not ashamed to admit that as soon as I stumbled across that fact, I laughed for a solid fifteen minutes and then started making plans to incorporate elephants in the story just so I could work them in. According to legend, Porus taught the secret of them to Alexander the Great, and so I have no qualms tying them back to Baahubali's goofy ancient Indian fantasy. Additional fun fact: one of the uses of war pigs involved them being set on fire to alarm elephants even more, not unlike the herd-on-fire that featured in canon, but I reckoned if I added that, it would stretch everyone's suspension of disbelief past all endurance!  
> *As usual, there's nothing in canon that suggests either Amarendra or Mahendra is particularly susceptible to strong scents, unless you want to count Avantika knocking Shivu out in BB1 --but the Mahishmati royal bloodline is so ridiculously powered up with super-senses and -strength that I wanted to give them at least one drawback, minor as it is.


	11. Chapter 11

Mother is furious. Mahendra supposes he should have expected that, but it is an unpleasant discovery nonetheless.

“You gave me your word that you wouldn’t wander away by yourself, Mahendra,” she snaps as soon as she sees him. “And then to go up to the wall, of all places!”

“I wasn’t hurt,” Mahendra reminds her uncertainly, studying his feet. Mother’s anger always makes him feel all at odds, awkward and unbalanced; perhaps it is because his own guilt sends his heart sinking down somewhere to the level of his toes.

“There was never any question of such a thing happening,” says Mother, voice taut. “If any had tried to harm you, they would have been shot down where they stood before they or their weapons might have touched you.”

He isn’t sure what reply to make to that; it is one thing to know that Mother worries about his safety, just as he does hers, and another to know that she would have killed to defend him. It is almost frightening to be loved so much, to think that one mistake on his part would cost the life of another. He does not, he thinks, particularly like Mother when her mind is set on war, any more than he particularly likes that glint in her eyes that tells him she means every word she says. 

Father comes to his rescue, as always. “Devasena,” he says, voice soothing, “he is unharmed. I was able to find him. There’s no need to worry.”

Mother frowns. “That may be so, but if—“ She breaks off, reaching out to pull Mahendra close. He doubts, though, that means he is really forgiven; instead Mother must only mean to ensure he doesn’t sneak off again by keeping her arm firmly around his shoulders. “My brother wishes to speak with us,” she tells Father over Mahendra’s head. “It would be better not to keep him waiting.”

Mother’s voice is sharp with concern despite her best efforts otherwise, and at first Mahendra can’t imagine why, because it’s only Elder Uncle. But when Mother ushers him before the great white thrones that have grown so familiar, it’s to find what seems to be all of Kuntala there. The back of Mahendra’s neck prickles with sudden misgiving. It will be all right, he reminds himself; this isn’t the court of Mahishmati, with its unfriendly King and Grandmother, so sad and so angry. Elder Uncle and Aunt Sumitra will listen.

And, in fairness, they do. It’s everyone else Mahendra forgets to take into consideration.

“Seven wounded, none killed,” Uncle Kumar is saying as they enter the courtyard where Elder Uncle sits before the army and all his ministers. “By all measures, an unprecedented victory.”

“And as few blows struck in turn,” Keshav points out. Mahendra winces at the anger in his voice, all the more in sunny, laughing Keshav. But perhaps that is not so surprising; Vishal, Keshav’s closest friend was one of those seven injured. Mahendra thinks he can understand why, because he would be outraged if anything ever happened to Gopu or even Avantika, but Mother says it’s not quite the same thing. Keshav and Vishal are rather closer than that. “What manner of victory can it be when the enemy still waits outside our walls at full strength?”

From all the stories Mahendra has ever heard, that makes a certain sort of sense, but this stopped being like a story quite some time before. In one of Gopu’s grandmother’s tales, he would have cheered for the absolute defeat of an enemy army, as he did for that of the Kalakeyas so many years before; now, he can only be relieved that no one he loves was hurt. He wishes everyone else could understand that. 

“A victory,” Father replies, “that still allows for peace,” and instantly Mahendra can tell that that was absolutely the wrong thing to say. The Kuntalans bristle like the boars they hunt; even Mother lets out a sharp exhalation of breath.

“Curious, isn’t it,” says Lord Vrishank coolly, “how peace must always come on your terms?” Father opens his mouth but before he can reply, Lord Vrishank goes on: “No, no, you hardly need explain. There is a plan, of course. We must only hold off until Mahishmati can be convinced to negotiate a truce that changes nothing for them and everything for us. Then we can tell ourselves that everything was resolved peaceably, that there wasn’t a greater loss of life, that we did not in fact need our dignity, our freedom, or a commander whose loyalties were not compromised.”

“Vrishank--” warns Elder Uncle, and Lord Vrishank bows his head. He does not look away from Father though, and Mahendra is reminded forcibly of a jackal eyeing its prey. He wants to call out, to warn Father, but Mother’s arms tighten on his shoulders to stop him. Reluctantly, Mahendra swallows back what he meant to say. 

“I mean no offense, my lord,” Lord Vrishank says silkily. “All the world knows of your actions in the Malawa Islands; of your good and generous soul that took pity on their humble requests and advocated for their independence. But can you deny that you would never do what must be done and take up arms against their oppressors yourself? Or that watching your countrymen fall causes you pain?”

Father is silent. Lord Vrishank’s lips curl into a satisfied smile. Mahendra thinks unhappily that he would give anything at all to have Lord Shashank speaking instead of his brother, even taking his horrible perfume into consideration. At least Lord Shashank stopped when ordered to do so.

“I suppose,” Lord Vrishank continues, clearly unaware of Mahendra’s silent plea, “that we should consider ourselves fortunate that our princess happened to catch your fancy. Otherwise we should be in the same plight as the Islands, forced back into years of subjugation.”

“Lord Vrishank,” Mother snaps. “That is quite enough.”

Lord Vrishank ignores her and turns instead to Elder Uncle. “Your Majesty,” he says, “I ask only this: while I understand your respect for the bonds of family, is fair to leave us at the mercy of one whose heart will always be divided? Should Kuntala’s fate depend on one whose hands will always flinch away from the fatal blow?”

Elder Uncle is silent for a long moment, and Mahendra wills him to go ahead and speak, to remind Lord Vrishank how wrong he is, to forbid him from saying all these dreadful things about Father; but when Elder Uncle does reply at last, it is to say: “Very well.”

For an instant Mahendra is certain he has heard wrong. Only Mother’s startled exclamation makes him trust his own ears, but even then, Elder Uncle does nothing but shake his head sadly at her. 

“As king I follow the will of my people, Devasena,” he says, “and the will of the people demands their commander be replaced. What else am I to do?”

Mother frowns. “It seems to stand by and watch without a word while my husband is disrespected is my lot in life,” she snarls, except if that is so, Mahendra doesn’t think she is doing a very good job of it. Mother usually has quite a lot of words to say if she thinks anyone is being unkind to Father. “And what of me? Am I also to forego any say in the matter?”

“I would not want to cause any marital infelicities, Crown Princess, but rest assured, Kuntala will always be your home.” Lord Vrishank pauses long enough for the silence to become uncomfortable. “Will it not?”

Mother only glares, and Mahendra thinks he can see why. If Mother says “yes,” then that means agreeing that they will never return to their little cottage, a thought almost too terrible to contemplate; but if she says “no,” that will only prove Lord Vrishank’s point. Mahendra scrunches up his face and joins her in glaring.

“If it must be so,” interjects Aunt Sumitra briskly, “then we must also appoint a new leader. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions, my lord?”

“As it happens—“ Lord Vrishank bows again and gestures impatiently. After a minute, the young man Nitish emerges to stand beside him, still looking faintly embarrassed. “My nephew is eager to prove himself, Your Majesty, enough that he begs that you consider him for this position. Assuredly his experience pales against that of such a….seasoned commander. But I promise you his heart is true and his loyalty given only to Kuntala.”

Elder Uncle looks out to the crowd. “And is this what my people desire?”

There comes a half-hearted, unenthusiastic cheer from the ranks, but that is all Lord Vrishank needs to hear. “So they have spoken and so shall it be,” he says. “I bless Your Majesty’s wisdom.”

“Very well,” Elder Uncle says again, and Mahendra chokes with indignation. It’s not right that Father should have his responsibilities taken away, not when he was doing such a good job, not when he only wanted to help! But Father only seems resigned, as though not unaccustomed to such a thing happening, and even Mother holds her tongue.

So, Mahendra decides, if no one else will do it, that means he’ll just have to speak up instead. 

“That’s not right!” he shouts and abruptly pulls away from Mother. She reaches for him, but surprise is on his side, and Mahendra can be swifter even than her when he wants to be. He darts through the crowd, careful to change directions every so often to cover up his path, and stumbles out in front of Lord Vrishank just as he is exiting the courtyard, Nitish at his side.

“That’s not right,” Mahendra says, struggling for breath. His chest feels as though it’s on fire, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is convincing Lord Vrishank of the error of his ways before it’s too late. “Mother and Father and I only stayed because you asked us to, because Uncle Kumar told me we would be heroes, and we didn’t go back home and now we can’t because Grandmother won’t believe us and it’s not  _ fair _ that you won’t let Father lead you when he’s gone to some much trouble for your sake!”

None of these excellent points keep Lord Vrishank from continuing to walk away. “Kuntala has no need of your father to play the savior, not again.”

_ Again _ ? Mahendra reminds himself to ask his parents about that later; but for now, it’s all he can do to keep up with Lord Vrishank’s long strides. “And you didn’t have to say such things about Father, either! Or make Mother angry.” Inspiration strikes. “She was your princess. You aren’t supposed to make your princess angry.”

Mahendra of all people should know. He had angered a Queen Mother and a King and, as a result, had brought about a war. He thinks the principle ought to apply even if Mother isn’t really the Crown Princess anymore.

Lord Vrishank comes to a sudden stop; the three of them have reached the gardens by now, abandoned otherwise, and Mahendra comes close to tumbling into a bunch of marigolds from the abruptness of the action. Lord Vrishank doesn’t much care about that, however; instead, he turns to face Mahendra.

“I was sure your father would be the ruin of Kuntala from the moment I saw him,” he hisses. “No one else was so wise but I. I knew, though, knew that he should destroy our peace, wrest our hard-earned safety from us, be the cause of all our despair. I knew, and I said nothing then, because I did not want to make our Crown Princess angry--no, worse than that, I did not want to make her unhappy. So I said nothing for the sake of the girl-child I had grown to love almost as my own, and as a result caused her to face more unhappiness and indignity in her marital home than even I could have ever expected.” He leans closer. “And if you think a day goes by that I do not regret my actions then, you are mistaken.”

“My father,” Mahendra says heatedly, “didn’t ruin anything.”

Lord Vrishank raises an eyebrow. “Did he not? As I see it, with his first step across our border, he brought us to the attention of Mahishmati, who’d previously been content to let us be for centuries. He charmed our princess into choosing cottage over crown, into ignoring every crime committed against her. He got her with child, with  _ you _ , to trap her in a foreign land forever by the bonds of motherhood--”

As long as he can remember, he has never heard of his birth being described in any such terms, as anything but the greatest gift his parents had ever received and the source of all their joy. Mahendra reels.

“She’s back now,” he manages at last. His voice is shaking; try as he might, he can’t seem to make it stop. “She came back, so you’re wrong--”

“Did she?” Lord Vrishank laughs, short and sour. “Impossible. Your mother was lost to Kuntala as soon as she lost her heart, boy. In an instant, our determined, dutiful Crown Princess was gone as though she might as well have died--”

“Uncle, enough,” Nitish interrupts urgently, but neither of the other two pay any attention to him. 

“--and leaving in her place nothing more than a lovesick chit enslaved by her emotions, no better than a common wh--”  

Mahendra loses his temper.

Saying terrible things about Father is bad enough, but no one is going to say a word against Mother in his presence, not ever.  

“Mahendra! No!” a voice--so familiar, so loved--commands from somewhere in distance. Mahendra ignores it. 

He lunges forward, unconscious of anything but the urge to cause as much pain to the other man as possible. Mahendra has been raised carefully: taught to settle his disagreements in a civilized manner, as Father always says, and to refrain from raising his hand to anyone, much less his elders, but he has observed enough other children shouting and flailing to have some idea of what to do. He throws himself at Lord Vrishank, knocking him down to the ground while kicking and scratching all the while, hoping to have a chance of expressing his rage before he is overpowered. He doubts he can do any better, small and young and inexperienced as he is; fiercely, he thinks it will be worth it nonetheless. 

Mahendra doesn’t expect to hear the snap of shattering bone.

He rolls off his opponent’s body, horrified. Lord Vrishank’s face is pale and pained, and all of a sudden Mother is there, studying his arm analytically and gently moving it back and forth. “Broken twice over,” she decides at last, “ but fortunately the skin remains uninjured. The damage might have been far greater.”

She doesn’t say a word to Mahendra, who backs away on hands and knees. He’s glad of that; he needs time to think through what has happened before he could possibly have any explanation to give Mother. It doesn’t make any sense. He has seen plenty of fights before between children of his own size and shape, and they never end in anything but scrapes and scuffed clothing--and certainly a grown man so much larger and stronger should easily be able to defend himself. And Lord Vrishank had been attempting to fight back; Mahendra remembers that. 

“Pray let me escort you to the physician,” Mother says briskly, helping Lord Vrishank to his feet. “He must bind your arm as soon as possible if it’s to heal.”

With a last baleful look in Mahendra’s direction, Lord Vrishank goes with her, Nitish following after. 

Mahendra watches the trio’s slow progress up the stairs of the palace, remorse and residual rage roiling together in the pit of his stomach. He wishes he hadn’t hurt Lord Vrishank. He wishes he knew what was wrong with him that he had managed to do so at all. He wishes Lord Vrishank had never said anything at all and so not caused any trouble in the first place. 

He turns around to find Father looking down at him with an expression Mahendra can’t recognize. 

“ _ Mahendra! No! _ ” Father had called out, and Mahendra had disobeyed. He supposes Father might be angry about that, but really, if Father only knew what Lord Vrishank had said, Mahendra is sure he’d understand. Before Mahendra can form the words to an apology, though, Father surprises him. 

“In all your life, Mahendra,” he says, very quietly, “I have only demanded one thing of you.”

Except it hadn’t been only one thing, not really. It had been watching, rather than joining in, when the other boys roughhoused and played raucous games of  _ gili-danda _ . It had been having to wait until he was much older to learn how to use a sword, even if Avantika didn’t have to wait at all despite being younger than he was. It had been never neglecting his practice, night after night, as Father patiently had him throw blows, one after the other, against his waiting hands while making sure Mahendra checked most of his strength while doing so. 

It had been, Mahendra realizes belatedly, doing everything possible to keep from hurting anyone without meaning to. Just as he had done right now, before his parents’ very eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he says as he meant to, except he isn’t, not really. He regrets that Lord Vrishank was injured, but the part of him still fuming over the other man’s words would do it all over again without a second thought. Father might not be able to know that, much to Mahendra’s relief, but it makes no difference. 

“I’m sure you are. That makes no difference to what you’ve done to Lord Vrishank,” pronounces Father, and studying him now, Mahendra can finally put a name to the unfamiliar emotion in his eyes--

Disappointment.

Father turns away, as though he can’t bear to look at Mahendra any longer, and in response, Mahendra’s heart can only twist with grief.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2018 to all my AO3 friends and readers! I know it has been forever and a day since my last update, and one of my resolutions for the upcoming year is to be much more prompt with them, at least since we are still steadily approaching the end. I want to thank you all for all your love and support in the year that's gone by; getting to meet all of you guys has been one of the best parts of 2017. Thank you so, so much for being so wonderful!
> 
> Other notes:  
> *Keshav's first cameo was back in Chapter 6, in case you are wondering who in the world he is. 
> 
> *As far as Lord Vrishank's motivations, as sinister as he is, I honestly do believe much of his anger comes from a genuine disappointment as to what Devasena has had to deal with. The surprise subplot of this fic for me has been the darker side of Kuntala, but regardless, I still envision them all as loving their Crown Princess very much.
> 
> *And at last, the mystery of Mahendra's lessons and Amarendra's reluctance to let him learn sword fighting revealed -- which is, of course, as Sivagami's encounter with baby Amarendra suggests, that everyone in the Mahishmati royal family is ridiculously overpowered, to the point of possibly presenting a danger to less super-strong individuals. One of the things that always interested me is how Amarendra is never, ever shown actually practicing against anyone else: Bhalla pits his strength against the bull in his big scene, but Amarendra takes the hit instead in his equivalent, and in Saahore Baahubali, he's shown practicing his sword fighting alone rather than against an opponent. So of course my overactive imagination supplied me with a bad experience he must have had in his childhood, resulting in a determination that his own child was never going to struggle through mastering a strength he couldn't control.


	12. Chapter 12

Mahendra is in disgrace.

This means he is confined to Mother’s old room, Maniamma standing guard. She clucks over him and makes quite a fuss—“so pale and cold, my poor darling!”—but Mahendra can’t seem to work up the will to protest.

Mother’s anger always burns bright like brushfire: terrible to face in the moment, but brief and entirely irrelevant to her love for him. Father’s disappointment, though, is something else entirely: it hangs heavy on Mahendra’s shoulders, making him want to howl and hide himself away. Father has never been ashamed of him, not ever, not even when Mahendra got into the worst of his scrapes. He’d almost rather Father was angry at him. 

His sadness shifts into short-temperedness all too soon. It is easier, after all, to be cross rather than crestfallen, and within an hour’s time Mahendra has almost convinced himself that it must not have been entirely his fault. Lord Vrishank was rude, and Mahendra was right, and besides it is utterly unreasonable of Father not to expect him to defend Mother’s honor. So there.

He spends the afternoon curled up on the bed, awaiting Father’s arrival. He knows what to expect; he promises himself he will be prepared. He will not be merciful. Father might frown and fidget when Mahendra points out that it isn’t  _ fair _ that Mahendra is forbidden to roughhouse with the other children or learn how to properly fight, but it won’t change the fact that Mahendra will be right. And then Father will have to forgive him.

Except Father doesn’t come, not at all. Mahendra waits and waits and waits in vain, but the moon rises and sets again, but he is still alone. He can’t remember ever having gone so long without seeing Mother and Father. 

It’s because of what he’s done, he decides. He’s behaved so badly that they cannot bear to be around him.

Mahendra would sink back into misery, except it is most difficult to mope about to the accompaniment of Maniamma’s soft snores from her post on the settee. He really does wish she would be a bit quieter. He sniffles as loudly as he can, but that doesn’t help him feel much better either. It doesn’t take him long to tire of this, too, and Mahendra carefully crawls out of bed, doing his very best not to disturb Maniamma. She tries so much to take care of him that she deserves her rest. 

He gently eases the door open and tiptoes through; if his parents won’t come to him, then he will go to them, and, and—throw his arms around them and not let go, apologize again and again until they aren’t angry anymore.

They aren’t there.

Mahendra, having made up his mind to be chastened and contrite, is not a little annoyed. Mother and Father might be busy, but he thinks they might at least keep from wandering off until they could find the time to forgive him. He looks around the room for any clues to their whereabouts, but everything within it appears untouched. They might be anywhere.

He hesitates at the door to their chambers; unlike his own, it is not locked. He knows he’s  _ meant _ to stay where he is; but what is he to do? Besides, it will be only one more thing that they can forgive him for, and then he will be very, very good afterwards, not giving his parents or Maniamma a moment’s worry, so that should make up for it. Mahendra nods in satisfaction and creeps into the corridor. 

He wonders if he shouldn’t stop by the kitchens first, because he was still sulking when Maniamma brought him dinner and so only picked at his meal. He regrets that now, his stomach rumbling ominously. But he cannot imagine Father in the kitchens, or Mother either, and so he turns away. Elder Uncle’s chambers will make a far better start to his search. 

As he draws near, Mahendra can hear Mother’s voice drifting out to him. For an instant, he is quite pleased with himself; the next, he actually hears the words she utters.

“I do not know why I expected otherwise.” Her tone is clipped. “The fault, it appears, is entirely mine.”

Mahendra winces and peeks inside, his courage suddenly failing. To his surprise, Father isn’t there, but only Mother and Elder Uncle. Mother has her back to the door, but her hands are clenched; and Elder Uncle, who is seated across from her, has his eyes closed in genuine distress.

“Devasena,” he says. “If I had my way—“

“If  _ I  _ had my way, we should never need to ask anything of you. A pity it cannot be so.”

When Elder Uncle speaks, his voice is harsher than Mahendra has ever heard it. “For years I have placed you and your happiness above all else; but now, for once, Kuntala must come first, if we are to survive. Can you deny it?”

Mother sighs. “No,” she admits at last. “I cannot fault you for your decree, and certainly demanding our departure from country is kinder than buying peace by turning us over to the enemy. But a life spent looking over our shoulders at all times seems no life at all.”

“Bhallaladeva’s spite can only reach so far. Surely somewhere you can be safe. Surely at some time he must tire and turn his attention elsewhere.”

“I believed so once.” Mother lets out a short laugh. “How he proved me wrong.” 

Elder Uncle is quiet for a long moment. “This much I can do for you, Devasena. Mahendra I can keep protected here, until you and Baahubali….return.”

Mahendra sucks in a breath, ready to protest—he won’t be left behind here while Mother and Father go away!—but then Mother scoffs.

“If it’s the root of your danger you intend to remove from Kuntala, you might start with Mahendra, my brother. It’s him they want above all else. The offer was kindly made, but if it’s protecting your kingdom you hold most dear—“

She breaks off and begins apologizing to Elder Uncle for her unkind words, but Mahendra has heard enough. There it is at last: the confirmation of the terrible possibility he has always suspected. Mother would have never told him the truth, if he’d asked outright, but he can be certain of it now that he’s heard it from her own mouth. 

It really is all his fault.

He backs away, mind racing. Maybe this is not so very bad. Maybe if they only want him, he’ll be able to stop all the fighting before anyone gets hurt.

Maybe if he manages that, Father won’t be disappointed in him anymore.

Mahendra, even now, is not entirely certain what anyone wants with him, but after all, it is only his grandmother who demands his presence and so it must not be very bad. Probably she is only lonely in that enormous empty house of hers and wants someone to talk to. He might even grow accustomed to it eventually, except he will miss Mother and Father so very much—

He cannot worry about that now. First comes figuring out how to leave the palace without being caught. All the doors are guarded, and that he’ll be noticed at once if he tries to slip away. Before he might have coaxed one of the servants into looking the other way, but now, since they all regard him with such suspicion, that is impossible. Even those who were fond of him before no longer look at him with any favor; Avantika has proven that.

For a minute, he wishes he could return to that first evening he spent in Kuntala: everything so pleasant, Avantika not angry at him, and the worst trouble he’d gotten into being his attempt at climbing the tree outside—the kitchens.

A month's time has taught Mahendra to make his way to the kitchens with ease. From there, it's only a matter of crawling onto the balcony, and, from there, jumping up onto the branch that extends over the balcony. There are no birds singing tonight; Mahendra climbs down undisturbed. The courtyard, too, is empty. Mahendra thinks this must be because everyone is too frightened by the war to linger outside, where it's not so safe. That is one thing, at least, for which he ought to be grateful.

He is not half so lucky at the gates. As he approaches, he sees two figures standing in the shadows, deep in conversation. The shorter and smaller has hands on hips; the taller folds his arms across his chest. Mahendra tiptoes closer, only to find that those before him are none other than Avantika and Nitish. He wants to groan, but he wants to seem grave and grand before them, and that wouldn't help at all. Instead he squares his shoulders and raises his chin. He will not betray how very ashamed he is, or how afraid.

He ought not have bothered. When she sees him, Avantika's eyes narrow and she stomps away before he can say a word. Just as well, Mahendra tells himself; he didn't want to talk to her anyway. That only leaves Nitish, and Nitish he knows he can manage. Or at least he's fairly certain that he can. At least behaving in such a way worked well enough when it came to managing Nitish' father. 

"I demand," he says, as haughtily as he can, "that you open these gates for me."

"No," replies Nitish.

Mahendra is surprised into blurting out, "But I have to go!"

"Your friend told me much something very similar. To you I say the same: that we are under attack, and there is nothing that necessitates your nighttime adventures. Go back to bed." 

He turns away, as though Mahendra is not worth even so little of his attention, and that is enough to set Mahendra scowling again.  

"That's all right for Avantika," he points out. "But I'm a prince." He doesn't quite believe it himself, not really, but if it will get him past that gate--

“You are not a prince,” says Nitish, frowning. “You are a frightened little boy, and I am commander-in-chief of the army. If I tell you to return to your quarters, as I shall, you will obey me.”

Mahendra sets his jaw. Truly he doesn't obey even his parents, though he means to; who is Nitish to think Mahendra should mind what he says? Nitish must sense something of his feelings, because he sighs and takes a step towards Mahendra.

"Must I tell you once more?" he demands, and in response, Mahendra frowns.

"If--" he searches for the right words. This is important. "If you don't let me go, I'll--I'll only find another way outside. And if you take me back to Mother's room, I'll escape again before either you or Maniamma notice that I'm gone."

"And if I take you to your parents instead?"

Mahendra catches his breath, but he will not show his weakness so soon. Mother always says that's the worst thing a warrior can do. "If you wish," he says, as casually as he can. "It makes no difference to me."

Nitish laughs. Mahendra has never heard him laugh before; it makes him sound much younger, much happier. "My father is fond of claiming that children cannot lie," he says. "I suppose this proves him correct--about this, at least." He bends down so that his face and Mahendra's are at the same level. "Tell me, little prince, why are you so determined to flee?"

For once, Nitish's expression is not that curious combination of boredom and embarrassment that Mahendra has always seen before; that is unexpected enough that Mahendra impulsively finds himself wanting to trust him, as though he still believed Kuntala to be a land of kind and worthy people. 

"Because," Mahendra says, "I can stop the war."

Nitish's eyes narrow, and Mahendra thinks how that must sound. "I don't mean to do anything bad," he adds quickly. "It's only that--my grandmother's there, and if I went to her, she might be happy enough that she would leave Kuntala be. You want the same thing, don’t you?”

He cannot be certain what Nitish is thinking: the man lowers his face so that it falls into shadow. At last Nitish says, very slowly, “You are certain of this?”

“No.” Mahendra has to be honest. “But that doesn’t matter, does it? What matters is that I might be right, and if I am, Kuntala will be safe.” That is the only thing about what he is planning that makes him happy, so he adds: “Everyone will be safe.”

“Very well, little prince. Let it not be said that Kuntalans fear to stake all on an unlikely chance, as do the brave men of Mahishmati.” Mahendra opens his mouth to thank him; Nitish shakes his head to stop him. “But I have a condition of my own.”

Mahendra hardly thinks he is in any position to be making demands but he asks anyway: “What is it?”

“I must go with you. If it’s peace you promise—and I pray it is—then I will see it settled before I am satisfied.”

“Grandmother won’t want to see  _ you _ ,” Mahendra warns.

“Nor I her.” Nitish smiles. “We must all make sacrifices, must we not? It’ll be morning soon, and I expect the patrols around the enemy camp will double with the day. Make your decision now, or go back to bed, and we’ll speak no more of this.”

Reluctantly Mahendra nods. If he saw any means to do it, he’d argue with Nitish until he had his way; but Nitish isn’t wrong when he says that it has grown late already. The closer to morning, the more likely it is that his disappearance shall be noticed; and then Mother and Father would never let him go.

“Very well,” says Nitish, and beckons Mahendra before him through the open gate.

At first they walk in silence. That’s all right; that gives Mahendra plenty of time to think wistfully about the last time he had walked this way, with Father when they had gone to see Grandfather.  _ Every time I believe you can’t resemble your mother more, I am proven wrong _ , Father said then, and his smile had been like a ray of the sun itself. Father will never smile at him so again or, if he does, Mahendra won’t be there to see it. He wishes Nitish weren’t here; then, Mahendra could let his eyes well up in peace without fear of being thought a baby. 

“You do not think much of me,” says Nitish abruptly, and Mahendra lets out a surprised squeak. “It is of no matter, but—“

He suddenly sounds not that much older than Mahendra, for all that he’s a grown man. 

Mahendra blinks. “Well, you took Father’s job,” he points out, because apparently adults need to have the obvious explained to them. “That made him unhappy. Mother, too.”

“Not through any desire of my own.” Nitish shudders. “My uncle terrified me with thoughts of upholding the family legacy even before he expected me to equal Amarendra Baahubali.”

That reminds Mahendra of what Lord Vrishank had actually said, about Father not needing to play the savior. He had meant to ask his parents, but of course that is hardly possible now, and Nitish will do in a pinch. Besides, he thinks it must be better than sad silence and stupid questions.

Nitish’s only response when Mahendra explains this is to laugh incredulously, which Mahendra thinks is rather rude. Of course he doesn’t know; if he did, he wouldn’t have to ask, would he? 

When Nitish finally recovers enough to speak, he gasps, “To think I should have to explain such a thing to Baahubali’s son,” and just when Mahendra is exasperatedly considering kicking him, no matter what Father would say about it, finally gets to the point. 

“Did no one mention the dam coming down during the Pindari attack to you? In my experience, not a day passes without that particular tale being repeated, little prince.”

“I’m not really a prince,” says Mahendra, mostly out of habit, and then stumbles. “You don’t mean—that was  _ Father _ ?”

Rather a lot of the things people have said to him over the last month suddenly make a great deal more sense. “Father was the one they gave a princess to for saving the kingdom?”

“In a manner of speaking,” confirms Nitish. “But a man would have to perform a great deed to deserve Devasena’s hand.”

All Mahendra knows is that it is utterly unfair that neither of his parents ever mentioned such a thing before. To think, all those times he asked how they met, only to be told the same dull story! At least Mother’s version is somewhat interesting, with bandit attacks and sword fights and Father’s presence only an incidental detail; Father’s is unforgivably soppy, all about Mother’s eyes and her smile and her hair. Breaking a dam and flooding a kingdom sounds much more exciting to hear about. Mahendra feels rather cheated. 

Nitish notices Mahendra’s indignation and mistakes it. 

“It can be difficult,” he says, “to be son to such a father.”

Which is silly, because being Father’s son is the easiest and the nicest thing in the world. But, Mahendra suspects, Nitish might be speaking of himself instead. 

“Is is difficult?” he can’t help but ask. “To be your father’s son?” If nothing else, the smell of so much dreadful perfume must be something to bear.

“At times, it can be.” Nitish replies after a pause. “My father has many expectations for me, and out of love for him, when I was not much older than you, I did my best to fulfil them all. The difficulty is that none of them are what I want.”

“What  _ do _ you want?” Mahendra can’t help but ask, and Nitish shrugs.

“To see the world. To have people remember my songs rather than my soldiery. To live outside my family’s shadow.” 

Mahendra nods, because he can’t think of anything to say to that, but that must be the right thing to do, because Nitish’s shoulders relax.

“We’re not so different, you and I,” he murmurs, as though surprised to realize it himself, but before he can say anything more, the trees give way to a small city of tents. 

The camp of the Mahishmati army stands before him, and Mahendra’s stomach begins to twist with fear once more.

He won’t let Nitish see that. He has to be brave. 

Guards stroll casually around the perimeter, clearly on patrol despite the quiet jokes they make to each other: their unsheathed swords say as much.

Mahendra has come too far to falter now. He marches up to the nearest guard, head held high, and announces, just as he was taught what seems so long ago: “My name is Mahendra Baahubali, the son of Amarendra Baahubali and his wife Devasena, and a son of Mahishmati. I would like to see my grandmother.” He considers, and adds hopefully: “Or my grandfather, if she is busy.”

The guard only gapes. He calls another guard over, who calls another, and another, until at last one goes off, hopefully to find Grandmother and Grandfather. It just seems a terribly impractical way to do things, taking so many people to fulfill such a simple request. But, Mahendra must concede with some relief, at least they are listening to him.

“You needn’t stay,” he whispers to Nitish. “They’ll take me to Grandmother.”

Nitish raises his eyebrows. “Is your memory so bad, little prince? I told you I wouldn’t leave you until I was assured of peace.”

Which Mahendra has to admit is true, and besides, it is a little nice to have Nitish there. If nothing else, it keeps him from blubbering. He really ought to thank Nitish, though, he thinks; but just then the last guard returns, now accompanied by a tall, broad man in brightly polished armor. 

The new arrival takes one look at Mahendra and stops short. “I see,” he says quietly to the guard who brought him, and then steps forward to bow to Mahendra, who’s startled into backing away. “Please come with me, Lord.”

There is something familiar about his voice, something that makes Mahendra uneasy--but he can’t identify it. Everyone is looking expectantly at him, however, and it must be time to see Grandmother, then. He hopes she won’t be too angry at him; or, even if she is, that she at least will see that there’s no reason to be angry at anyone else. 

Slowly, Mahendra begins to walk beside the man who must have been sent to fetch him. Behind him, he can hear Nitish’s footsteps following.

They walk past tent after tent, which grow progressively larger and more elaborate. Where the first few tents were made out of rough nondescript cloth, only as wide as the verandas back in their village; the last few are almost twice the size of their cottage and made of finely embroidered red-and-gold silk. It to one of these that Mahendra’s guide leads him; he stops outside the entrance and bows again. 

Mahendra stares, confused, until the man jerks his head towards the tent, and Mahendra realizes he’s meant to go inside. He sucks in a shaky breath--he will not cry, he will not cry, even if Grandmother tells him he won’t see Mother or Father ever again--but it’s not until Nitish puts a hand on his shoulder that he works up the nerve to push aside the tent flap and go inside. 

Who’s waiting there isn’t Grandmother, or even Grandfather. Sitting before him, splendid and sinister, is the King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Once again, Maniamma continues to belong to forestpenguin/kaadhu, who graciously allowed me to borrow her for this story.   
> *Mahishmati's tents all being made of red silk seems to be canon -- at least as of Baahubali 1, since Amarendra commandeers them to use against the Kalakeya army. That said, I'm fairly certain the rank and file of the army make do with far less ostentatious accommodations.   
> * Finally, I'm afraid I can't be convinced that both Amarendra and Devasena would describe their first meeting to Mahendra in a manner that he could only find disappointing. (In fairness, they're not _wrong_ , technically speaking.


	13. Chapter 13

“Dear nephew,” says the King. His voice is softer, now that he doesn’t have to shout across a crowded hall. Mahendra finds that far more frightening than any raging or raving could be. “Welcome.”

Mahendra can hear Nitish stumble into the tent behind him and stop short in dismay. And well he might: the king lounges in a magnificent olden chair, unarmed and unarmored but with a smile on his lips that Mahendra doesn’t like, not at all.

Still. Maybe he’s wrong; maybe it is only a misunderstanding. “I’d like to see Grandmother,” he ventures, and adds, for good measure: “if I may, Your Majesty.”

The King’s smile widens as he settles back in his chair. “What fine manners,” he marvels. “Your father taught you that much at least.”

Mahendra supposes he should be grateful for the praise, but the way in which the King says it makes him bristle. But Kings do not like being corrected—Mahendra has learned that much—and so he stays silent.

“Are you in such a hurry to leave me, though?” the King goes on. “No warm greetings for your uncle?”

Mahendra stares at him, aghast.  Uncles should be like Elder Uncle and Uncle Kumar, honest and helpful, not like the King, who  _ lies. _

“You are  _ not  _ my uncle,” he snaps, too appalled to consider any consequences.

Most fortunately the King does not seem offended in the slightest. He sneers instead and says: “I expect even Baahu could only do so much, with such a child. All the training in the world must admit defeat before a tongue bred to blasphemy.”

Mahendra frowns. He’s not precisely sure what the King means, save that plainly the King cares for Mother as little as she does him, but he knows none of it must have been very nice.

“And this,” says the King, “is what the Queen Mother intends to displace my son from his rightful place.”

“Your son?” Mahendra thinks back to the wrinkled old baby in Queen Varuni’s arms. Being all swaddled up in blankets doesn’t seem terribly comfortable, even if he wasn’t so much bigger than Prince Bhadra. “Is that what Grandmother wants?”

The King’s face flushes suddenly. “Is that not,” he growls, “what she has always wanted? Since you were born, since your father was born—“ He breaks off, noticing the clear confusion on Mahendra’s face for the first time. “He hasn’t told you, has he? Why he hasn’t set foot in the palace of Mahishmati for seven years; what he gave up to marry your mother.”

Stubbornly, Mahendra refuses to admit his ignorance to the King by so much as nodding; if the King wants to say Father did something wrong, Mahendra won’t give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. But it’s too late; the King throws back his head and laughs, long and hard.

“Baahu, you fool,” he pronounces, and beckons impatiently at Mahendra. “Come here, boy, and let me enlighten you. An uncle can do at least so much for his only nephew.”

“You’re not my uncle,” Mahendra mutters under his breath, but he obeys, cautiously stepping closer to the King before taking a seat on the floor. It is rather disloyal to Father, but he can’t resist. 

He thinks, after all that trouble, the King might start explaining, but he only says, “That loyal lout who trailed you here can wait outside.”

Mahendra wants to laugh; how foolish to think that Nitish thinks him important enough to come here for his sake, rather than Kuntala’s! But Nitish speaks up himself before Mahendra can correct the King.

“I, O King, am nothing less than the Commander-in-Chief of my country. I shall not be spoken to in so insolent a manner.”

The King shakes his head sadly, except Mahendra doubts that he is really sad at all. “Baahu does have a bad habit of earning demotions. Regardless. Whoever you may be, I will not have you intrude on what is, after all, only a family matter.”

“I will not leave the prince’s side,” Nitish says doggedly.

The King stiffens, and for an instant, from the gleam in his eyes and the curl of his lip, Mahendra is certain he is about to say something terrible. But then his gaze falls on Mahendra, and his shoulders relax again.

“Most noble,” he rumbles. “But just as you shall not stir from this spot, so shall I not speak of what I know.” His words are for Nitish, but his eyes never leave Mahendra, who knows then what he must do.

“Nitish—“ he squeaks, and then, in a somewhat stronger voice, “please—please won’t you wait outside?”

“Little Prince!”

“Forgive me,” Mahendra whispers desperately, “but you heard what the King said, and—and—“

And Mahendra has so very many questions, and the King has answers; he wonders if this was how Sita herself felt when she saw the golden deer dart past her cottage. 

With a last grunt and a glare —whether it is meant to be directed at the King or at Mahendra or both—Nitish lifts up the flap of the tent and leaves. Mahendra hopes he’ll understand, or at least that he won’t be too unhappy with Mahendra. Just when they were becoming friends!

Now that they are left alone, Mahendra looks expectantly at the King, who only says: “What do you know of the law of Mahishmati, when it comes to deciding punishment for those of the royal family found guilty of any crime?”

Mahendra can’t help but feel rather cheated. The King had promised to talk of Father, not of something as boring as laws and decrees, particularly those that don’t even apply to him. Even Mother and Father say he needn’t study such things until he is older.

“It mustn’t be nearly severe enough,” he snaps, seeking refuge in rudeness, “if it means you can still be King.”

“Nothing, then,” supplies the King. “Shall you tell me next that even the Kalakeyas are unknown to you?”

Mahendra scowls, insulted. Of course he has heard of the thwarted invasion; who hasn’t? Mahendra has spent as much time as any other child of his village play-acting that battle except, in keeping with Father’s wishes, he always has to pretend to be the attacking Kalakeya, allowed only to flop over and expire when the victorious Gopu approaches.

“Your father was there,” the King announces bluntly.

And although he knows that Father must have been all right, that he must have survived to sire a son, Mahendra’s heart beats a little faster. The Kalakeyas were monstrous and mighty and merciless, everyone knows that. They must have been more than a match for the greatest of warriors, much less a man who helps Mahishmati most by creating machinery. The things his parents did when Mahendra wasn’t around to keep them out of trouble!

“He fought well enough,” says the King, “or would have, had he paid more care to the goal at hand—of eliminating the threat to our home—rather than protecting the life of a few shabby citizens. He was fortunate that I was there, to cover up for his blunders—not that it mattered in the end. He won Mother’s favor anyway. He  _ won _ .”

So that was how Father must have come to Grandmother’s attention. Mahendra had wondered. He sits up a little straighter, pleased and proud, despite everything, to hear how well Father had done, even it must be from the King’s lips. The King notices, but only by the way his right hand tightens into a fist does he betray his displeasure.

“He had everything, your father, and still it wasn’t enough. His eyes must fall on what Mother had already promised me before Baahu even thought to ask permission to wed, what was rightfully mine—“

It takes a minute to work that out; the King’s voice is as petulant as Mahendra’s and Gopu’s when they insist one has taken the other’s toys. It doesn’t seem at all the sort of thing an adult ought to do, as though he needed any more reasons to think badly of the King. And what’s more: “Mother would never have married you anyway,” Mahendra can’t help but point out. “She said so.”

The King pales and forces himself to smile with some effort. “If the product would only have been offspring such as you, I am grateful,” he retorts. “But my narrow escape hardly mitigates your father’s crime. He defied the Queen Mother, defied Mahishmati, all to marry a renegade princess of no particular worth.”

The King, Mahendra thinks, seems terribly sour over losing the hand of a renegade princess of no particular worth, no matter what he says. But still; if that is the only reason why the King thinks Grandmother ought to be angry with Father, it does sound rather stupid. It had been Mother’s choice to marry as she pleased, and if she raised no objection to live in a peasant’s hut rather than a palace, Mahendra can’t see why anyone else should.

He reminds the King of this fact, as haughtily as he can; but to his disappointment, the King is not put in his place, all too aware of his many faults and prepared to confess his sins—especially lying about Kuntala and about Mother and Father—to Grandmother.

Instead the King’s reaction is incredulity. “Are you truly,” he demands, “so very ignorant?”

“I know plenty of things!” Never before has Mahendra been so grateful for the many full things his parents insist he learn during his lessons. “My numbers, and my letters, and all about elephants—“

“Nothing important,” corrects the King. “Nothing of where you come from—who your father is, who you are—“

At last Mahendra tires of hints and half-truths. “If you know so much, then tell me!” he snaps, just as though he were squabbling with one of his friends. He only barely manages to keep himself from stamping his foot, and that too, because Mother always says that makes one seem childish. He wants to seem grown-up if he can, especially before this King who doesn’t think very much of him.

As before, the King only appears amused by his annoyance. “So be it. You, dear nephew, are the first-born grandson of a King—“

“A  _ Queen _ .” Mahendra has seen the portrait of Mother’s mother in the galleries of Kuntala, a tall woman who resembled her daughter at least as much as everyone says Mahendra looks like Father.

“A King. Vikramadeva of Mahishmati, who sat on this throne before I did, who poisoned the minds of all around him so that he might take his brother’s birthright—who died before he could see your precious father born.”

It suddenly seems as though all the breath has been squeezed out of Mahendra’s lungs. “Father’s no one special,” he says weakly: what he knows, what he has always known. “Father’s only—Father.”

The King ignores this as the nonsense it is. “The Queen Mother of Mahishmati, regent by right of strength, took him in out of the kindness of her heart, and in return he brought her only heartache. He fell in love with your mother and chose her above all else—even to the point of humiliating the Queen Mother in midst of her court, heedless of how it hurt her.”

That doesn’t sound like Father, not at all. Father never causes anyone pain, not if he can help it. But, if it’s true: “Is that why Grandmother sent him away?” 

“No,” replies the King with casual cruelty. “That came later. For that he only sacrificed the throne the Queen Mother promised him.”

In no world or no way can Mahendra imagine Father as the King instead. Grandmother— that golden gloomy palace can have no claim on him. He belongs to Mother and Mahendra, and only to them.

Reluctantly, though, he remembers all the times he’s seen Father looking sadly back at what, Mahendra realizes, must have been his home once. If he misses it half as much as Mahendra longs for their little cottage—well, then, Mahendra wants to know what he can do to make things right somehow, so Father will be happy again.

“Why was Grandmother angry at him?”

“Need I remind you what a difficult woman your mother is? She defied the Queen Mother, defied  _ me _ at each opportunity; she persisted despite every warning. At last we had had enough—she must pay the cost of her crimes against the state. Your father, if he had the sense to hold his tongue and keep his temper, might not have shared her fate, but, unfortunately, learned too well from her example. She drew a knife and challenged my commander-in-chief; he drew his sword in my presence and challenged me.”

“You mean,” Mahendra wonders aloud, “that it was Mother’s fault.” For someone who claims to dislike her, the King certainly mentions her a great deal.

“Oh no,” says the King pleasantly, “or not only hers. Even a beautiful bride could not bring the noble Baahubali to ruin if she didn’t also bear his child.”

Mahendra’s mouth goes dry. “Me?”

“You,” the King replies. “Even if he could bear to be separated from your mother, you he could never give up.”

“I was born in the village, though; my aunt Lakshmi told me so, and she was there. All my aunts were there.”

“And your  _ seemantham  _ was held in your parents’ royal rooms. Your ah, ‘aunts’ were present then, too, as I recall; in fact, it was not much longer before they were all banished by the Queen Mother’s command. Perhaps you boded bad luck for them, as well, just as you did your parents.”

That breaks the spell. The King’s voice is rich and resonant; it makes even the vicious things he says appear reasonable. But Mahendra’s birth was the best thing that ever happened to either of his parents, the greatest happiness and the greatest fortune they had ever known. So they have always said, and so he believes wholeheartedly. The King has lied about other things; why not this, as well?

But even allowing that his outrageous claim that Father was a prince is true, and that they had somehow upset Grandmother and had to go and live in the village that was their home, that does not explain:

“Even if Father did something bad then,” Mahendra says slowly, “he hasn’t done anything bad now. You know that. Why did you tell Grandmother otherwise?”

The King answers, as casually as though he were explaining that the sky is blue or the best sort of trees to climb those with sturdy branches, “To do away with the greatest threat to my future that I perceive.”

Of all the stupid things to believe! “Father doesn’t want your stupid throne,” Mahendra spits. “So you don’t need to worry about  _ that _ .”

“It’s not a question of what he wants,” the King replies absently, “but what this wretched populace desires. But it was not he who I meant.”

“Then who?” asks Mahendra, before he can think better of it. He has a fair idea what the King’s response might be, and he doubts he can control his anger if the King says any more awful things about Mother.

“Mahendra Baahubali,” replies the King, “made in the image of his father, beloved by all who meet him.” 

Indignant, Mahendra scrambles to his feet. “What do I want with your throne? I’m not even grown!”

“Not mine.” The King waves his hand dismissively. “That I have already secured. I mean that throne which belongs to my son.”

Mahendra opens his mouth to point out that he certainly can’t change Bhadra’s position as prince, but then, suddenly and sharply, what Grandmother had announced in the midst of court—one _of_ _the_ _heirs_ _to_ _Mahishmati_.

He looks up nervously at the King, and knows his realization must be obvious. 

“What will you do with me?”

The King leans forward. “The question at hand. There was a time when I would have said that your departure from Mahishmati should suffice, just as I thought engineering your father’s exile would satisfy me.”

To leave their cottage behind, to never again see their friends—but that can’t be what the King wants, because if so, he should have been content when they went to Kuntala. 

“And now?” 

“Now,” says the King, “now I’ve come to see that that’s not enough. Wherever your father lives, he will live as a king, and you, I realize, are no different.”

“That’s not fair!” Mahendra cries, and this time he can’t help it, no matter what Mother thinks: he does stamp his foot. “Father doesn’t live like a king, and neither do I, and it’s not  _ fair _ that you won’t let us be because of it!”

“Fair?” For the first time, the King leaves his chair to loom over Mahendra. “Let me explain to you something about fairness, boy. Fairness is my father, replaced despite being the older and wiser because his brother happened to be whole. Fairness is my hold on this crown, offered me only because everyone’s darling disappointed them for once. Fairness is my son, expected to compete with an older child and doomed to always the less competent and charming. Fairness is the legacy of this family, and I have watched it destroy two generations already; no more.”

He squats down so that he is at a level with Mahendra, and cups his cheek with a large hand as Father so often does; Father’s touch, though, never makes his skin crawl as this man’s does.

“Poor Mahendra,” says the King, the glint in his eyes inhuman. “For my Bhadra to prosper, you must perish.”

The words have barely left his lips when there is a roar, and all of a sudden, Nitish is there, sword out, throwing himself at the King. Mahendra, still reeling from all he has learned, does not react, but the King is entirely unsurprised. Calmly, he reaches out and grasps Nitish’s wrist before he can strike; the sword falls to the ground with a clatter.

The soldier who led Mahendra and Nitish to the King’s tent burst inside, eyes wide. Lazily, the King calls: “Tardiness does not suit a member of my guard. Were you hoping that he might put an end to me, and spare you the trouble?”

The soldier looks down. “No, Lord. Forgive me, Lord.”

The King grunts and shoves Nitish towards the soldier, who catches him just in time.

“And as for you,” says the King, eyeing Nitish, “Servants ought not to eavesdrop on the conversations of their superiors. Nor should they speak of what they hear.” 

Nitish tosses his head. “I am no serv—“ That is all he is able to say before the soldier’s arm comes up around his throat, clearly robbing him of breath.

The King gestures impatiently. Mahendra can’t be sure what it means, but it makes the soldier plead, “Not before the boy, Lord.”

“He must learn eventually,” the King replies flatly. “His father and I did.”

And then, in one terrible fluid movement, there is a flash of metal against Nitish’s neck, and the soldier is releasing him so that Nitish falls forward onto the floor, and Mahendra screams and scrambles to his side, but he won’t move, no matter how many times Mahendra calls his name. Blood pools from the cut across Nitish’s neck, but he can’t be dead, because it’s nothing like when he and Gopu play at vanquishing villains, because he was fine just a few instants ago, because Mahendra doesn’t want him to be—

The King turns Nitish over with a slippered toe, and Mahendra recoils. Nitish’s eyes are open and unseeing; his head lolls unnaturally on his neck. 

“Prepare a palace in the realm of the gods,” the King whispers, “for when my brother and his son join you. They will have need of it all too soon.”

With a last flourish of his drape, he turns to his soldier. “Dispose of the body,” he commands. “The boy remains here. No one is to know of his presence.”

The soldier—horrible, heartless man, to hurt Mahendra’s friend!—only nods and stoops to grab hold of Nitish’s shoulders; he drags Nitish behind him as he follows the King outside.

Mahendra would try to go with them, but the bright red streak still visible where Nitish fell is all the warning he needs to stay where he is. He curls up in a corner instead, too terrified even for tears.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Sita’s temptation by the golden deer leads directly to her kidnapping by Ravana in the _Ramayana_ : Bhalla strikes me as no less sinister a figure.   
> * Readers will surely recognize the echo of “She was warned; nevertheless, she persisted.” A direct reference seemed to me too likely to be too jarring—but have you guys heard a more perfect Devasena quote?  
> * Some might wonder why Bhalla is so chatty and childish; I would remind them that present-day Bhalla is indeed quite petty and prone to monologues: maybe victory or Mahendra’s presence brings it out in him! That said, if any part of this conversation is clunky, please let me know—I always want to know how to make this story better.  
> * Finally, in keeping with my habit of apparently updating on various new year celebrations, a very very happy Tamil New Year to all you guys! :)


	14. Chapter 14

If there is one advantage to being left alone, it is that Mahendra has time at last to mull on what he’s learned.

So Father was a prince, or had been, at least, before Grandmother had grown angry because of Mother and because of Mahendra, and said he couldn’t be one any longer. Mahendra hadn’t known such a thing is possible, but it must be. The King’s story is far too fantastic to be a product of his imagination, and nothing Mother or Father have ever said would deny this.

It would explain why everyone in Kuntala treated  Father with such reverence at first, beyond even that respect paid him by everyone back home. It would even explain why Father is as at his ease among kings and queens as commoners, or how he always seems to know his way around every palace they visit as though he belongs there. And besides—hadn’t Mahendra thought himself that only kings or princes were likely to marry princesses? 

Put that way, it seems rather obvious. Perhaps the King is right to suppose Mahendra rather stupid.

So Father had been a prince and Mother a princess, but not any more, and what of it? Mahendra had been a baby, and is not so any more, and this seems no different. Except some people can’t understand that and, what’s worse, are ridiculous enough to think that made Mahendra special too. In particular the King, who thinks this means that the only way to make sure wrinkled baby Bhadra will have his throne is to kill Mahendra, just as he’d killed Nitish.

Nitish: that is what Mahendra wants least to think about. But now that he has started, he can’t stop. The dark stains on the ground become all too noticeable, and he remembers all over again how Nitish’s body had fallen to the ground with that terrible thud, how he hadn’t even been able to finish his last words, how his empty eyes had stared at Mahendra, almost angry, almost accusing  —

Mahendra shames himself by being sick all over the floor, which means now there is another corner of the King’s fine tent that he must avoid.  _ He must learn eventually, _ the King had said.  _ His father and I did;  _ but Mahendra won’t learn, doesn’t want to learn, is perfectly happy remaining ignorant of such things. Not, he thinks, if it means becoming anything like the King.

But Father had, and somehow escaped such a fate. At least Mahendra refuses to believe otherwise, no matter how wrong he might have been about everything else. He has faith in Father, and, moreover, in Mother. Mother would never think so well of Father, or smile at him, or love him if he were anything so wicked. 

It occurs to him that Mother doesn’t think very much of Grandmother, either. But that is different: she is his father’s own mother, as the King himself confirmed, and nothing at all like her dreadful son. Father wouldn’t love her if she were, nor would Grandfather speak of her with such respect. Mahendra is sure of that.

Grandmother would stop this, Mahendra thinks, if only she knew—

But Grandmother does not know, and Grandfather is far away in this confusing maze of tents, and the King has given orders that Mahendra isn’t to leave, at least not until the King returns and more likely than not, decides to kill him as he had Nitish. His breaths quicken until he lungs ache, because he doesn’t want to die, not if means he’ll never see Mother and Father again, not if it means he can’t apologize to Lord Shashank for what has become of his son, not if it means he’ll never get to ride an elephant.

Enough! Mahendra scolds himself, and then, because it is easier than speculating on what will happen next, tells himself sternly to think what Father would tell him if he could. 

Father would say...Father would say that Nitish had not suffered so that Mahendra could sit around and feel sorry for himself. It is Mahendra’s duty to escape, if only because the King has as much as admitted that nothing should make him unhappier--and Mahendra wants him to suffer, wants him to worry and sorrow with a viciousness he has never felt before. 

The front of the tent is guarded, but that does not mean the back of it is--or, perhaps not as heavily. Mahendra scrubs his face with his knuckles and crawls backwards as quietly as he can. To his surprise and relief, the material of the tent tears easily to make an eyehole; the fabric might be lovely to the eye and pleasing to the touch, but it is truly not sturdy in the slightest. So much the better; the King doesn’t deserve nice things like the warm, well-made cloth created in Mahendra’s village. Let him content himself with this stupid silk!

As Mahendra hoped, there are only two guards behind the tent, as opposed to the whole battalion he can hear at the front. He only has to wait until they are distracted, and then--

He hears footfalls behind him, and whirls around, panic making him awkward. But it is only the soldier who had had led him to the King, who had killed Nitish at the King’s command and dragged his body away. Mahendra sits down and scowls, still certain he knows this man from somewhere else.

“Forgive the intrusion, Lord--” begins the soldier before he sees the scene before him and stops, aghast, but that is all Mahendra needs to recognize him. He gets to his feet, arms on his hips.

“Your name is Uday,” he accuses. “You brought a message to our house, and my father called you his friend--”

Uday shifts uneasily. He does not look Mahendra in the eyes. “There can be no true friendship,” he says carefully, “between princes and commoners--”

“That’s not what Father thinks, and besides Father’s not a prince anymore. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that you were Father’s friend, and you  _ lied _ about him.”

Uday is silent for a long moment before he replies. “I followed the orders of my King. Such is my duty, Lord, and the duty of any son of Mahishmati.”

Mahendra wants to laugh; even he knows this much. Mother and Father have made sure of that. “Not,” he says, “when what the King says to do is wrong. Not when it means hurting people who don’t deserve it. At least  _ I  _ don’t think so, and I’m just as much a son of Mahishmati as anyone else.”

“That is very like what your father would say,” says Uday, and for an instant, he seems almost amused.

He ought not to, Mahendra thinks furiously, and, in hopes of wiping that expression from his face, snaps, “My father would be ashamed of you. Mother said you couldn’t help it, that the King had made you somehow, but I don’t think that means anything. You hurt Nitish, and helped the King lie to Grandmother about Father, and nothing in the world  would make Father behave as you did, nothing at all!”

Uday smiles no longer, and Mahendra basks in sudden savage satisfaction. 

“I have a son myself, not much older than you,” he says, though Mahendra can’t see what that has to do with anything, he knows an opportunity when he sees one. Besides, he would not put it past the King to threaten some other unknown boy for just as stupid and unnecessary a reason as he did Mahendra. 

“If the King is being unkind to him, too, or, or hurting him somehow,” he says eagerly, “only tell me, and I’ll tell Father, and we can help him. I give you my word that we will save him, if only you’ll let me go--”

Uday shakes his head. “He is in no such danger,” he whispers, as to remind or reassure himself, and in a sharper tone: “You are not mistaken, Lord. Your father would never have behaved as I did, nor bear witness to such shameful deeds in silence. What is done is done, but nevertheless--” he meets Mahendra’s gaze at last, sharp and sure for the first time Mahendra has ever seen it, “--in a quarter hour’s time, the rear guard to the King’s encampment will be assembled for an urgent announcement. It may not be much time, but it will have to be enough. Do you know your way?”

Mahendra nods. He can find his way, can find anything, if it means he can escape this tent where so many terrible things took place. 

It is enough to satisfy Uday, who bows his head and backs out of the tent. Mahendra is glad to see him go; even if he has promised to help Mahendra now, that cannot change what he did before. He might be Father’s friend, despite all that has passed, but he will never be Mahendra’s. 

A quarter hour passes more slowly than ever before, but at long last Mahendra hears a shout and the tromp of footsteps moving away. He does not wait, but crawls under the edge of the tent; to his relief, as Uday had promised, the area behind the tent is empty. He tilts himself in the direction of the forest, the path he must take to make his way back to the palace of Kuntala.

Before he can bolt, though, a flicker of movement in the corner of his eye catches his attention. It is a group of ladies, dressed rather like those he has seen in the service of Aunt Sumitra, all walking busily towards a tent not terribly far away. They must be Grandmother’s ladies-in-waiting, Mahendra is sure of it, and where they are, Grandmother must be.

He wants more than anything to run as far away as he can, but he remembers too the look on Father’s face as he had looked at the faraway palace. Father misses his home, Mahendra is sure of it, and maybe, if Mahendra could just explain things to Grandmother, how happy Father might be! It is a matter only of a few moments at most, and Mahendra will never forgive himself if he passes this chance up to make things right. 

With a last look at the cover the trees provide, Mahendra tiptoes towards Grandmother’s tent. He practices what he must say; he supposes  _ Hello, Grandmother _ must come first, and then perhaps, he can announce,  _ See? I’m not in silks _ . She would be happy, then, and satisfied to see that she had been wrong, and then she would come with him to see Father and end the war, and all this unhappiness would be over.

The back of Grandmother’s tent is as easy to sneak into as the King’s is to sneak out of, and Mahendra can’t help but feel not a little proud of himself at how quickly he manages it. Grandmother is sitting at a table in the outer room of the tent, her back to him. The ladies who he had seen earlier seem all to have disappeared, and Mahendra is grateful; the fewer people who see him, the better. The gods must indeed look with favor upon his plan.

“Grandmother,” he hisses as he approaches, because he does not want to startle her: “ See? I’m not in--”

She turns around. She is not the only one. The King her son gets to his feet from where he sat to her side, just out of Mahendra’s vision, and Mahendra knows, from the look in his eyes, that it is far too late to run. He might have escaped once; he will not be so fortunate a second time.

“Mahendra?” says Grandmother. She frowns. “Is that you?”

But it is not so bad as it seems. Grandmother is there, and she will not let the King do anything bad to Mahendra, because she is his grandmother and she must love Father too much to let such a thing happen, no matter how angry she is at him or Mother or Mahendra. Everything will be all right, as long as he does not leave her side.

“Hello, Grandmother,” Mahendra says, coming closer. “I only wanted--”

He stops short. Before the table, crumpled in the dust, lies Nitish. All the breath leaves Mahendra’s body in a rush, and he cannot think of anything else to say.

“To continue,” drawls the King, “I found this man entering in my chambers in the dead of night, sword out; what’s more, before this attempted assassination, he claimed to be the Commander-in-Chief of the Kuntalan forces. A second Ashwatthama, it appears.”

“He’s not Ashwatthama,” Mahendra snaps, “You are!” If anyone is in the habit of harming defenseless children, it is surely the King, and not Nitish. 

Grandmother looks as though she still rather wonders what Mahendra is doing here, but the King speaks first. 

“And what else,” he says silkily as ever, “is one to call it when a commander sinks to such depths to vanquish his enemy? To fight without honor is a terrible thing, but it is even worse that he should have asked you to follow him when he came here for such a foul purpose.”

Mahendra can’t believe how very stupid the King is being. “I didn’t follow him,” he corrects; does the King remember nothing of their previous conversation? “He followed me.”

“You mean to say,” the King says slowly, “that the actions of this night were of your making and not his?”

“It  _ was _ my idea,” Mahendra says crossly. There is a terrible silence, and only then does Mahendra realize how his words must have sounded. “I didn’t mean--”

“A confession from his own mouth, Mother,” says the King, shaking his head. “Do not the wise say that children cannot tell untruths?”

Grandmother laughs wearily. “He is not seven years old, Bhalla,” she says. “I hardly think he is capable of--”

“Baahu born again, you always say; should he not be every bit as precocious? Every bit as clever? Except --how did the boy put it?--born with his mother’s spirit.” 

In the King’s mouth, even those words that Father speaks so often sound like the worst of insults. Mahendra wants to tear his throat out for it. 

Grandmother says nothing, even as the King puts his hands on her shoulders, and continues, low and urgent: “We are far too late, Mother; Devasena has his heart, and she has taught him to hate as she does. You will never make a worthy heir out of him.” 

“I don’t  _ want _ to be a worthy heir to your stupid throne,” Mahendra snarls; does the King still believe he cares about such a thing? Does Grandmother? But that must be exactly the wrong thing to say, because Grandmother only looks affronted for an instant, before she turns her face from him wearily. 

“Take him away, Bhalla,” she orders. “Keep him somewhere safe until I can decide what is to be done with him.”

The King bows his head. “Of course, Mother,” he murmurs, and reaches for Mahendra; and Mahendra knows all too well what his idea of  _ safe _ shall be. He struggles and swings his arms about uselessly, scraping at the ground; but the King is a full-grown man, and stronger, somehow, than he is. Mahendra kicks out, just as Father told him never to, but quite unlike what had happened the day previous, there is no snap of bone or shout of pain: only a low chuckle from the King as he cuffs Mahendra about the head and picks him up bodily. 

Through it all, Grandmother watches and says nothing. Anger bubbles up in Mahendra’s chest, and his lips open before he can stop them. “I hate you!” he says, and is surprised to find that he means it. 

Grandmother’s eyes open wide, as though she has the gall to be surprised despite all she has done, and that only enrages Mahendra further. 

“I hate you,” he says, because he can, because nothing can make this moment worse, because he wants her to hurt as much as he does, “and Father does not deserve you and Grandfather should not think so highly of you and Mother was wrong in everything she said about you!”

“I am certain,” Grandmother says wearily, “that your mother has indeed told you a great deal about me.”

“She did,” Mahendra retorts. “She said you were angry and alone, and she made it seem as though I should feel sorry for you, but I don’t, not one bit!” So there, he thinks, but Grandmother only frowns.

“And what else?” she demands. “There must have been more!”

Just as quickly, his sudden rage fades. Does it matter, really? The King will kill Mahendra anyway, whatever Grandmother thinks of him. “No,” he mumbles. “Nothing more. Only--whenever I asked, Mother said grandmothers were meant to be kind and to love you, even from afar, and she was wrong. Mother was wrong.” Mahendra has never been so heartbroken. Mother has been proven wrong about something, Grandmother is nothing like what he believed, and Father, back home, will never know how sorry Mahendra is for disappointing him before Mahendra dies. He sags in the King’s grip, too exhausted to fight. 

The King grunts, and another guard enters: not Uday this time, but one burlier and with a harsher expression. “Take the boy away,” he says as he hands Mahendra over, and in an undertone. “Bind his hands this time until I can deal with him.”

For the second time in his life, Mahendra looks over a man’s shoulder as he’s carried away from Grandmother; and this time, he turns his face from the grief he sees in Grandmother’s eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Uday's cameoed a fair few times in this story already, but as a reminder: he's one of the fellow boys we see training under Kattappa.  
> * Silk is traditionally a very durable material; clearly Bhalla's cutting corners if his tents rip so easily.  
> * Ashwathamma is the infamous last Kaurava commander of the Mahabharata war, and both Bhalla and Mahendra refer to two stories about him. Bhalla to the story of how he entered the Pandava camp while all its warriors were sleeping and murdered them where they lay, and Mahendra to his (attempted) murder of the unborn Parikshit.  
> * We see the conversation between Devasena and Mahendra where she explains that Sivagami is angry and alone, but not the earlier one where she speaks of grandmothers in the abstract (a Nidhana outtake someday, perhaps?), but I am certain that at some point, Mahendra must have had questions about what grandmothers were like.   
> *For everyone wondering how the shrewd Sivagami become _quite_ so gullible as to accept everything Bhalla tells her in silence, I will only say that not all hope is necessarily lost.


	15. Chapter 15

Mahendra is becoming very tired of this tent.

It is not only the bloodstains, still visible beside him, that bother him—not to mention the puddle of sick that has yet to be cleaned—but also the fact that the guard who dragged him back saw fit to obey his King by tying Mahendra’s wrists behind his back and to the great wooden pole that holds up the tent. The man was a brute about it too, making the knots far tighter and more painful than they have any reason to be—though, in fairness, the fact that Mahendra was attempting to kick and scream and scratch out the guard’s eyes might have played some part in his ill temper.

Mahendra feels rather like the young Krishna, unjustly bound to a mortar; and at first that gives him the idea to attempt to uproot the tent pole from the ground and carry it with him. No such luck, however; the pole is not terribly heavy, but the angle at which Mahendra is tied makes it quite impossible without trapping him within yards of silk when the roof of the tent falls down. Someday, Mahendra thinks mutinously, he must have words with whoever had constructed royal tents to be so very difficult to escape from. 

For now, however, he can only return to scraping the ropes back and forth in hopes that they might fray and release him. Admittedly this has not been very successful so far, but at least it is  _ something. _

Unfortunately, doing so is not very interesting, so Mahendra supposes he shouldn’t blame himself for falling into an uneasy drowsy—but he can, and does, feel flustered that the footsteps that wake him at last are much closer than they ought to be. 

Mahendra peers anxiously into the darkness for an attacker, almost twisting his neck in the process. Not that finding the intruder would do much good, seeing how securely he is tied up at the moment, but no matter: if the King means to kill him at last, he shall find Mahendra defiant, not dozing, saying something clever and cutting like “You are a bad man and I do not like you” or, or “Father is better than you ever will be—“

“Hush,” says a sharp voice in his ear. “Do you want  _ all _ the guards to hear you?”

Mahendra blinks. “Avantika?”

“Hello,” she says, kneeling behind him and fumbling with the knots in turn. She is, he has to admit, rather better at it than he would be, even unencumbered; but despite his relief, he remembers that the last time he saw her, she was angry with him. 

“What are you doing here?” he blurts out, despite the danger. He is not terribly surprised when she only hushes him once again, but that gives him enough time to recall that he had been just as angry with her, too.

The rope gives way at last, and Mahendra, relieved, rubs his wrists where they’ve been scraped raw. Mother had done the same thing, he thinks suddenly, outside the throne room of Mahishmati, and the memory brings up a new bubble of rage. Once again, being furious makes for a pleasant change from his previous despair, and Mahendra embraces it.

So it is rather unfortunate that Avantika chooses now to scramble before him and hiss: “Now listen, Mahendra, we haven’t much time—“

“Not until you answer my question,” says Mahendra, crossing his arms over his chest although he knows she cannot see it. He scowls, too, for good measure. He is tired of ignorance, and tired of being informed of his idiocy by a sneering King. From now on, he promises himself, he shall not so much as budge without knowing  _ precisely _ what is going on.

Avantika huffs but doesn’t give him the tongue-lashing he thinks he deserves. She must really be sorry, Mahendra realizes, even before she begins to speak.

“I heard you,” she says, tone clipped as though every word was pulled unwillingly from her lips, “talking to Lord Nitish. You said you were going to the enemy camp alone. I didn’t think even you could be so  _ stupid _ .”

Mahendra feels separated from the events of the evening by far longer than a few hours, but even so—he had seen her stomp away. She must have doubled back to eavesdrop, which doesn’t seem at all the sort of thing anyone would do for someone she did not care about; with dawning hope, Mahendra dares believe that they might still be friends after all.

“I thought,” she goes on, thankfully oblivious to Mahendra’s delight, “that Lord Nitish would keep you safe, but the night went on, and you didn’t come back, and—“

“Nitish,” Mahendra interrupts, “is dead.” The first time he has said this out loud, has had to relay the news of anyone’s passing. His stomach twists once more.

Avantika sucks in a breath: he imagines her eyes are wide and frightened. Perhaps she had imagined that Nitish was only being held prisoner somewhere else—at least, that is what Mahendra might have assumed if he were in her position.

To her credit, when she speaks again, Avantika’s voice is steady. “That’s just as well,” she says, “I didn’t think I should have time to save him, too.” But she fumbles for Mahendra’s hand in the darkness nonetheless. Her fingers, when he takes them, are cold. “I’m glad,” she whispers, so quietly and quickly so as to be almost inaudible, “that you’re all right.”

“Time?” Mahendra repeats inanely, not only because he can’t think of anything cleverer to say, not when Avantika has come as close to apologizing as he thinks she ever will, but also because he isn’t at all sure how to respond to her last few words. He hadn’t thought she could ever sound so gentle.

“Yes, time!” snaps Avantika, and with some relief, Mahendra registers that at least that’s gotten her back to normal. “As you would know if you only let me explain—she said once I’d found you, we were to keep quiet and wait for her signal—“

As though conjured up by her words, a low resonant bugle blares: one of the old-fashioned battle-horns Mother and Father describe in their stories. Mahendra might have asked who that mysterious  _ she _ is, except he hasn’t the breath for it: Avantika scrambles to her feet and shimmies under the back of the tent, dragging Mahendra with her. She doesn’t let go of his hand, not even after they’re free of the tent, but steers him away from the forest edge. That doesn’t make much sense, but then Mahendra can make out the guards lined up against the treeline, far more than had been present before. 

The realization that this source of escape is no longer available is disheartening enough that he is happy to let Avantika lead the way. Soon enough, however, this is proven to be a poor decision once she steers then towards an oddly familiar tent. Once inside, Mahendra yelps with dismay. He hasn’t thought Avantika would be foolish enough to repeat his own mistake, but sure enough, here they are, back in Grandmother’s tent.

“It’s all right, she’s—“ Avantika begins to say, but then Grandmother herself enters and Mahendra is too furious to hear anything further.

He glowers at her, ready to run. But she is not dissuaded at all by the ferocity of his glare—when Gopu had gravely assured him that that expression is quite frightening, even if his parents only tended to chuckle whenever he used it!—and instead comes close enough to lift his chin up so she can study his face.

Mahendra jerks away from her touch, and ignores her wounded expression in response. Grandmothers who gave him up to the King didn’t  deserve pity.

She turns to Avantika instead. “I trust you were able to follow my instructions?”

“Of course.” Avantika tosses her head. “They weren’t so very difficult, even if Mahendra wouldn’t listen to me _at_ _all_.”

Which is horribly unfair of her to say, but hardly unexpected, so Mahendra focuses instead what truly surprises him. “Your instructions?” he repeats. “You were—you sent Avantika to help me?” 

Grandmother does not do anything so undignified as nod, but she makes no denial, either. Mahendra blinks, mind swirling. 

“But—but—you told the King to take me away!”

“So I did,” agrees Grandmother. “My son shares with me a particular distaste for having his will defied, and it seemed to me the best way to ensure he wouldn’t be excited into taking more—desperate actions was to grant him what he wished: which was to keep you in his grasp until I could take measures of my own. What’s more, over the years, I’ve come to find that the wisest course of action to allow a culprit enough rope to hang himself.” 

Mahendra isn’t entirely certain what she means, except he does wish she wouldn’t speak so about hangings as though accustomed to them. What seems most important, though, is that it seems she might not believe the King and his accusations after all. He must be sure, though; heartbeat echoing in his ears, he asks eagerly: “So you were pretending all along?” Warming to this thought, he continues: “You were—you were only trying to catch the King in his lies, so that, so that you could have  _ him _ exiled and chopped to pieces, and then Father could visit the palace whenever he wanted, and be happy again!”

If he had not been studying Grandmother’s face so closely, Mahendra thinks he would not have noticed the frown flickering across it. He worries at first that she might be angry again, but suddenly, he realizes with a surge of fellow-feeling that she is only terribly ashamed of herself and trying her best to hide it.

“Bhalla can be—persuasive,” is all she says, admission and apology both. “But even he cannot convince me that a child of your years infiltrated our camp for insidious purposes; or, as he confided to me in private,  that the wisest plan should be to keep such a child prisoner away from his parents and use him as a guarantee to bring about the end of this--unpleasantness with Kuntala on our own terms.”

Mahendra’s mouth goes dry. Admittedly, he expected to spend the rest of his life with Grandmother, if the worst had come to pass--but to think that even if he had done so, it would only make things worse for his parents and everyone he loved in Kuntala!

Grandmother doesn’t notice his dismay, though; or at least does not consider it worthy of recognition. She says instead, “It occured to me to consider why my son was so adamant on convincing me of such a ridiculous notion, and to consider that it might not be in your best interests. So, when your intrepid friend made her way to me, I was happy to offer my assistance.”

“Oh. Thank you.” He offers her a hesitant smile. “If you know that the King lies, does that mean you won’t have to go to war after all? And that Mother and Father and I can go home?” He has missed their cottage, and their friends; he swears to himself that as soon as he returns, he won’t make a fuss about going anywhere. Look at all the trouble it had caused, when he had only asked to see Kuntala someday! He shan’t even insist on going to visit Aunt Lakshmi--well, or maybe only if she had something truly delicious prepared for dinner and Mother was in charge of cooking for the night. He doubts anyone could fault him for that. 

His smile is not returned. “That,” Grandmother says, instead of promising him what he wants, “can be discussed later. What concerns me now is your safety, Mahendra.”

Even Mahendra can see that this is a ridiculous thing to worry about. “The King won’t hurt me if I’m with you,” he reminds her. “You’re his mother. Now, about Father—“

Grandmother only ignores him yet again. “The main ways will be watched,” she muses aloud, “which leaves only less orthodox exits.”

“You are the Queen Mother,” Avantika speaks up. “Why wouldn’t they allow us passage if you came with us?”

“It is,” replies Grandmother distractedly, “to my—our—benefit not to be seen in your company.”

But why not? Everyone knows Mahendra is her grandson, and no matter how she might feel about him or Father, she cannot change that; besides, being noticed with him wouldn’t make any difference in the matter, unless….

“You’re not planning on stopping the war at all, are you?” Mahendra accuses, aghast. “That is why. Because if the guards saw you taking us away, they would know Father is right and you and the King were wrong.”

“Simply because I have cause to suspect my son of one fault, I cannot doubt his every action,” says Grandmother. “I made him King on the strength of my faith in him; to forget that would be to do the throne itself a disservice.”

“That didn’t stop you from being angry with Father, and wasn’t he your son, too?”

There is a terrible silence, and Mahendra wonders if he has gone too far. But Grandmother, when she speaks, sounds only weary.

“Do you wish,” she asks, “to go back to your parents?”

The King threatening to kill him as he had Nitish does not even enter into it; Mahendra nods frantically.

“Then follow me,” says Grandmother, and sweeps out of the tent without looking behind to see if they will come with her.

They steal across the camp in silence, but after some time, Mahendra is bold enough to whisper into Avantika’s ear: “I thought you said she was scary.”

“She  _ is _ scary,” Avantika replies, eyeing Grandmother warily. “I didn’t expect to find her. Or her me, I suppose. It’s only—when I made my way here, I thought you might be with her, but then she said you weren’t and that she thought you were in trouble, and that I should find you while she made arrangements to make sure the guards weren’t paying attention somehow, and she looked so fierce that I said yes without thinking about it.” She appears faintly embarrassed by the confession. “Not that I wouldn’t have helped you otherwise,” she adds quickly.

“I know.” And because he hasn’t said so already: “Thank you.”

Avantika doesn’t say anything, but he is fairly certain he sees her smile.

Grandmother leads them past the area of the camp where—much to Mahendra’s delight—the elephants are tethered for the night. He is tempted to approach them, awake them, and ascertain if they are just as friendly as they seem, but both Grandmother and Avantika shake their heads furiously at that. He must acknowledge they have a point: surely even the sleepiest soldier should notice an elephant rousing. 

In clipped tones, Grandmother explains that the mahouts needed passage through the forest to exercise their mounts, and that the guards gave a wide berth to them, because of course it must be somewhat unpleasant to be trampled underfoot.

“The safest path,” she pronounces, though she looks no less nervous. 

Mahendra can’t see why, except then he remembers that she had mentioned, what seems so long ago, that she had not enjoyed—oh, how had she put it?—the most cordial of relationships with elephants. That must be what she’s scared of, though no one ought to be frightened of such noble creatures.

Nevertheless, Mahendra takes her hand in his free hand, to give her strength. He might not understand or agree with so very many of her decisions, but he does not want her to be afraid, not while he is there to protect her.

Grandmother gives him a surprised look, and privately Mahendra has to admit that she is not very good at holding hands. She must not be accustomed to it, he reasons, because although her hand is as warm and large as Avantika’s is chilly and small, she only lets her hand hang limply in his, not squeezing back at all as everyone knows you’re supposed to.

Still. She does not let go, even after they’ve left the elephants behind.

“Where is Grandfather?” Mahendra wants to know, after they’ve entered into the relative safety of the forest. Avantika glares at him, and only then does he consider that they still might attract unfriendly notice.

Grandmother does not shush him, so it must be safe to speak, however.

“It was felt,” she says, after a pause, and Mahendra can’t help but notice she doesn’t say by whom, “that his...partiality should have an adverse effect on her service, and so he was sent back to secure Mahishmati from any who might take advantage of our absence.”

“Oh,” says Mahendra. That may be for the best. He doesn’t want to think of the King taking out his rage on Grandfather once he discovers that Mahendra is missing.

Grandmother is the next one to break the silence. “Your mother,” she starts to say, and the back of Mahendra’s neck prickles with worry. “You claimed she spoke of me. What else did she say?”

That doesn’t seem so bad, but Mahendra still suspects he should be careful. “Only that. Nothing else, really.”

Grandmother lets out quite the most insincere laugh he has ever heard. “She shows great forbearance, then. Your mother bears me little love, and nothing would give her more pleasure than to see the last of me.”

Mahendra considers this. He has been wrong about so many things, but no, he thinks, about this. “No, it wouldn’t. When someone speaks of you, she looks just as sad as Father does, and besides, Mother doesn’t hide it well at all when she doesn’t care for someone.” Recklessly, he adds: “Like the King.”

“Hmm,” is all Grandmother says, but somehow, the subject is now firmly closed. Mahendra can’t help but be glad.

They walk and walk and walk until his feet ache, and it’s just as the first rays of the sun are creeping over the horizon that they emerge from the forest to find a cluster of people waiting for them on the other side of the plain. At first Mahendra is alarmed, but then he squints to discover:

“Mother! Father?” And with, a small group of Kuntalans he can’t quite make out. He looks at Avantika curiously, who only huffs again.

“Well, of course I told them! Do you think I’m just as silly as you are, to run away without letting anyone know?”

She is so terribly smug that Mahendra can’t help but ask pointedly: “And did they know you were sneaking off to the camp itself?”

“Humph,” says Avantika and looks away, by which he decides she did not. But even that small victory doesn’t matter, not really, because he is here and free, and his parents on the other side of the plain waiting for him. 

Avantika races ahead once they are halfway there, and more than anything, Mahendra wants to join her, except Grandmother’s steps are faltering. 

He looks up at her. She has gone white, and is staring ahead; she looks even more scared than when they were with the elephants, and belatedly Mahendra wonders if this wasn’t what she was dreading all along.

“Come on, Grandmother,” he says, tugging gently on their clasped hands and smiling wide to show her she shouldn’t be worried, not about this. “Father will want to see you, and Mother, too!”

She stares at him for a long moment, and then her expression clears. The corners of her lips turn upwards, and she seems younger and happier than he has ever seen her—this, he thinks, must have been the woman Father had known as his mother.

But then, the very next moment, her mouth flattens and her eyes go wide with surprise; at the same time, her fingers tighten on his until their grip is almost painful. Mahendra can’t understand why, or even why Mother and Father are suddenly beginning to run even more quickly towards them—

Then he sees the arrow blooming out of Grandmother’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The story of Krishna that Mahendra refers to can be found in the _Srimad Bhagvatam_ , and involves uprooted trees, men freed from curses, and general mayhem. It is not surprising that Mahendra loves this tale.  
> * I am not certain I would take Gopu’s word for anything, especially when he wants Mahendra to leave him in peace.  
> * I can only imagine war elephants need as much exercise as regular elephants; but, never having been involved in the care of either, I admit I do not know for sure!  
> * One chapter (and an epilogue) left!


	16. Chapter 16

Mother is the first to reach them.

“Mahendra, down!” she commands as she clings her weapons aside, and obediently Mahendra flattens himself to the ground. From the corner of his eye he can see Mother gently easing Grandmother down, and he scrambles forward on his elbows and knees to help her.

Grandmother’s eyes are closed; her mouth is twisted with pain. “A bow,” she gasps, “meant to find its target across any distance—should have known—not the wisest gift to grant—“

Mother shares a puzzled look with Mahendra, who can only shrug back in equal confusion. He has heard that old people rant and rave sometimes, but he always thought that was only when they were toothless and wrinkled, like Gopu’s great-grandfather on very bad days. But then again, he’s never been shot by an arrow before; perhaps it does make one mumble nonsense for the first few minutes. He hopes Grandmother will be better soon, because he doubts he will be very good at interpreting her odd answers.

Before them, Mahendra can make out the outline of Father and the other soldiers falling into formation; only when she has assured herself that they shall be enough of a defense to protect against further attack does Mother carefully sit Grandmother up to examine her back. Mahendra crawls to her, overjoyed beyond words to find her so close when not so very long ago he despaired of seeing her ever again. For her part, Mother pauses her examination long enough to pull him to her and press a quick kiss on the crown of his head; but lest he think he’s escaped punishment, she adds: “We’ll discuss your disobedience later.”

Mahendra doesn’t mind. Even the prospect of one of Mother’s worst scoldings isn’t enough to make him wish himself anywhere but at her side.

He watches worriedly as Mother gently twists the arrow and taps on the rest of Grandmother’s back, but at last she lets her hands drop into her lap. “The lungs were spared, I believe,” she says, “and for now the arrow itself will staunch any bleeding in your body. For the time being, I judge it wiser to wait until it can be removed by one of our physicians in safety.”

Grandmother wheezes. It takes Mahendra an instant to realize she’s laughing. “Am I then to trust my life to Kuntalan ingenuity?”

“I have every hope that you shall recover from the indignity,” Mother retorts, but a faint grin forms on her face. “Mahendra,” she orders, pointing to a small clump of trees nearby, “take your grandmother to shelter and stay with her until the court physician arrives. I sent your friend Avantika ahead to fetch him; I have faith that she won’t tarry. Make sure your grandmother is safe until then, and—above all else—make sure that arrow  _ does not move _ . Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” says Mahendra, though rather distracted by the rumbling of distant wheels going closer.

Mother mutters a rude word under her breath that she’s warned him never to repeat and dives for her bow. “Take care of your grandmother,” she calls over her shoulder, and then she is darting forward to join the others.

Mahendra watches her go, his throat tightening with now-familiar anxiety, but then he forces himself to turn to Grandmother. Better, he reasons, to focus on her; here, at least, he can be of some help.

“Shall we?” he asks, trying to sound cheerful and unconcerned, as Father would. “I want to be in the shade, because the sun is shining in my eyes from here, and that makes me squint, and Mother always says my face will stay that way if I do so too often, but I  _ think _ she’s only teasing—“

“Very well, Mahendra.” Grandmother’s voice remains steady, but her eyes crinkle at the edges as Father’s do; he suspects she must be laughing again. “Lead the way.”

It isn’t so simple as that, of course. Grandmother can’t walk unassisted, although she must want to, because she keeps ushering Mahendra to go onward instead of waiting for her; and in the end, he slings one of her arms over his shoulders so that they stagger together to the shelter Mother indicated. He is careful to keep her feet on the ground, because he does not think she should like it if he carried her outright; but he is uncomfortably aware that she is so weak he is forced to support almost all of her weight.

It will get better, he promises himself. Avantika would return soon with the physician, and he should be able to heal Grandmother, just as Mother promised.

Grandmother securely deposited on the most comfortable stretch of ground, Mahendra peeks through the trees at the battle before him. At first it is only a blur of bodies, but then there is a flash of copper, and Mahendra can’t help but catch his breath.

“What has happened? What do you see?” demands Grandmother where she lies on her side, and then tries to get up, which means Mahendra has to scramble down and remind her: “Mother said you weren’t to move!”

Or perhaps it was the arrow instead that was meant to stay where it was, but either way he glares anxiously at her until she stills with clear reluctance. From the pointed jerk of her chin, however, he understands that her compliance is contingent on Mahendra answering her first question; so he turns around to look past the trees so he can report—

“There’s something cutting through the forest coming towards Mother and Father and the others.” At first, he is terrified that it might be Vishnu’s mighty discus, bent on destroying everything in its path; but the next moment, he is glad he did not say something so absurd aloud. It is only a wheel of swirling spikes, set at the head of a chariot driven by….bulls?

“Bhalla does love them so,” Grandmother murmurs, fond and faint, when he relays this to her, and he wonders if her wits are wandering again, not least because he can’t imagine the King loving anyone or anything. The chariot comes into the newly created clearing on the other side of the plain, with the King atop it just as Grandmother had predicted, and then Mahendra hasn’t time to worry about anything else.

A series of chariots, if not so lethally constructed, trail behind that of the King: it is all too clear to see that even against so select a force, Mahendra’s parents are outnumbered.

The King calls down something to Father, who replies, unsmiling. The King only laughs in response, and jerks his head at Mother.

“Must we be so ill-mannered as to discuss household affairs before outsiders, Baahu?” he says loudly, which just goes to show how little he knows, because doubtless Mother is more a member of their family than the horrible King. Mahendra makes a face at him, though it will remain unseen, simply to relieve his feelings.

“What is it now?” Grandmother calls again, and he forces himself to explain as clearly and calmly as he can.

Even as he speaks, he tries to focus on what Mother is saying now: it is not at all easy, but he thinks he hears, “...might yet live, no thanks to you.”

The King hisses something under his breath, and Father’s grip tightens on his sword; but he says nothing at all, only raises his hand slightly so that the Kuntalans move forward as one.

After that, everything is a blur of motion. Mahendra hardly knows where to look: on one side, Mother is shooting trio after trio of arrows, aim as unerring as ever, and Father—Father is fighting ten men at once, skilled and sure and nothing less than a stranger to his son’s eyes. 

Mahendra has never seen Father fight before, not really, not when it mattered; always he has only demonstrated a move here, a tackle there, with a quick laugh and quicker smile and an encouraging clap on the back for his student. But now, any man who stands against him lasts only seconds; once on the ground, they do not get up again. Only the faintest rise and fall of their chests convinces Mahendra that they aren’t all dead as he suddenly fears.

_ His father and I learned eventually,  _ the memory of the King’s voice mocks, and for the first time Mahendra understands exactly what that means. He thinks he can no longer begrudge Father all the rules he set for Mahendra about controlling his strength, not if it keeps Mahendra from ever having to cause such devastation.

He swallows. Grandmother, though, doesn’t appear appalled at all by his halting description: instead her eyes glint with pride. “So is the fate of all who defy my sons.” Too many words, all at once; she winces, and waves Mahendra away when he goes to help. “ _ Either _ of my sons.”

She is not mistaken. On the other side of the battlefield, the King, even without his lethal chariot, fells as many of his opponents; these, in contrast, do not stir in the slightest after he is finished with them. 

The King’s face, though, remains unmarked by the slightest worry or even satisfaction: unusual for a man who had seemed to come alive every time he was around Father. Now he appears almost as though one bored….or, Mahendra realizes with dawning horror, waiting for something--

“We have to go!” he yelps, kneeling by Grandmother so he can help her sit up. “Quickly, get up, we have to go--”

He is too late. All the revelation allows him is enough time to drag Grandmother out of the way before the first desperate swing from the swordsman who enters their sanctuary. 

“You musn’t!” Mahendra shouts. They clearly don’t mind him, but they might respect Grandmother, at least. “She’s the Queen Mother!” 

The soldier scoffs. “Not anymore. Anyone who helps enemies of the throne escape is a traitor, be they Queen or crone: so says the King.”

He might have expected it. Everything that goes wrong is the King’s fault. 

“She’s hurt, though!” Mahendra tries desperately, backing away with Grandmother as quickly as he can. He thinks it might go easier if he didn’t have to worry about dislodging the arrow in her back as Mother had warned not to. “And unarmed! Neither of us are fighting!”

“My King’s word,” says the soldier, “is my command.” He lunges again, and Mahendra has to throw himself sideways at Grandmother to get her out of the way. Her breaths come ragged and irregular in a way that can’t bode well; Mahendra bites his lip. 

“I’ve drawn blood already today in my King’s justice, and that too of a friend,” the soldier continues, his eyes all too bright. “Do you dare presume your deaths will weigh more heavily upon me than Uday’s?”

For a moment, the world grows dark, and Mahendra pauses to stare up at the soldier in disbelief. He needs only an instant to realize how very idiotic that had been, an instant in which the soldier raises his sword for a final slash, and then all he can do is close his eyes and hope it will not hurt too much to die--

There is a strangled sound, but strangely, it doesn’t come from Mahendra’s mouth.

He opens his eyes, still wary, and his mouth falls open. The soldier is staring back at Mahendra in surprise and terror before falling backwards, because somehow, the arrow in Grandmother’s back has migrated to the soldier’s chest, except that doesn’t make sense, because arrows don’t move on their own.

He whirls around to gape at Grandmother, who only chuckles at his surprise—if that is what one can call such a horribly hollow sound. “You were mistaken,” she rasps. “I’m ne—never unarmed.”

She sags in his arms, and he reaches for her; his hands come away damp with blood.

Mahendra wails, forgetting the battle, forgetting everything entirely but his own panic. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Father slow at the sound.

That means he can turn back to Grandmother, fear once more under his control. He holds her close, soothing, “Don’t worry, Father’s on his way, he’ll make everything all right, you’ll see, just—just wait!”

Grandmother only smiles wider at him and reaches for his hand. “Such a strong grip,” she whispers. “So like your father’s.”

Mahendra’s chest grows painfully tight.. 

“But something I see of your mother, too.” Her eyelids droop. “So much the better.”

Slowly, her hand grows limp, slowing falling until all he finds himself clutching desperately is her index finger. And then that, too, leaves his grasp to rest upon the grass, just as Father arrives, but everything isn’t all right, not at all. Mahendra looks up, helpless and heartbroken, and Father falls to his knees.

A sharp intake of breath from above them, and then Mother is there, too. She presses her fingers to Grandmother’s neck, but neither Mahendra nor Father needs her confirmation to know—to know—

They sit together, their arms around each other and Mahendra nestled between his parents; but there is no joy here, not like there was before.

There are footsteps behind them, but they come no closer. Even in death Grandmother offers her protection; it is some time before the King’s drawl cuts into the silence.

“A touching tableau. Won’t Mother’s soul rejoice to see herself so mourned by her darling? Even after everything she did.”

Father stiffens. The King doesn’t seem to notice, however.

“Swearing every oath in her name,” he goes on, voice low and desperate, “that same Sivagami Devi who denied you your due, who refused so much as look at you, who turned on you without a second thought once you were proven unworthy in her eyes—Baahu, if anything, I have done you a great service: certainly you would never have been able to rid yourself of her otherwise.”

Father gets to his feet; Mother winces but lets him go. Mahendra, who remembers how inexorably strong the King’s grip had been, squeaks in protest, but Father only tousles his hair and squeezes his shoulder before moving forward to meet the King. 

“She had nothing to do with this, Bhalla,” Father tells him:  _ Bhalla _ , not  _ Your Majesty _ . “You had no reason to raise arms against her.”

“She had everything to do with it,” corrects the King. “Always, always she has stood in my way, since we were young--or don’t you remember? But no more; now there is only you, and your son to dispose of, and then I shall know peace at last.”

The King does not speak at all of his son, as he had when talking to Mahendra; perhaps he has forgotten, or perhaps he had been lying, either then or now. It is difficult to tell with the King. Mahendra does not have time to dwell on that question; the King bares his teeth and adds: “Dear Devasena I might spare. I am not so much a monster as that; though, tell me, would she want to live after looking upon your corpse and that of your brat?”

Father tackles him, and the King, with a bark of laughter, swings his arm back in a blow to Father’s face. This fight is nothing like the last; if that one had been frightening to watch, this one is a thousand times more so. Both Father and the King are far more savage than he has ever seen either, as though only around the other can they use their full strength. They seem evenly matched, but surely it cannot be so. Surely Father will win--won’t he?

Mother pulls Mahendra into her lap, but does not go to help. None of the other soldiers do, either; there seems a silent understanding not to interfere. Mahendra, from his position, can feel the rapid unsteady beat of Mother’s heartbeat, the way her grip tightens on his shoulders. 

He can’t help it; he must know. “Are you afraid that Father won’t win?”

“No,” she replies absently, “Not that.” She must notice Mahendra’s wide eyes and white face, though, because she says: “You need not watch.”

Mahendra is ashamed that his terror should be so evident, but he knows what he ought to say. “Father would,” he tells her. “You would.”

“But that,” Mother says sternly, “does not have to mean that Mahendra would. Have your father and I taught you nothing?”

He’s never thought about it in quite that manner before; but even given the choice, he finds he’d rather know what is happening than rely on his imagination about what might come to pass. And he is glad that he does, because that is when it occurs to him that there is a difference between Father and the King: the King fights only because he revels in it, while Father fights so because he thinks it his duty. Does that make it all right? Mahendra can’t be sure; but--

His thoughts are interrupted by a cheer from the Kuntalans, and even some of the enemy soldiers from Mahishmati. Father has forced the King down, one hand immobilizing the King’s arms, one foot on the King’s chest. With his free hand, Father fumbles for his sword, and the King watches him, eyes bright with satisfaction. 

“The great Baahubali,” he whispers. “Noble beyond measure, putting his duty before all; brought down to shedding his own brother’s blood. What difference is there between you and me?”

Father studies him for a long moment. “I should never raise a hand to my brother,” he agrees, and releases the King’s arms, stepping back and turning away. The King promptly reaches for the nearest weapon at hand, even as Father’s back is to him, and Mahendra wants to shout a warning, but then: 

“My mother’s murderer, on the other hand,” adds Father casually; “the man who insulted my wife and threatened my son--him I can kill without a moment’s regret.” He whirls, and in one fluid movement, his sword is out, gleaming in the sunlight, and the King falls, head severed from his shoulders. 

Father lowers his sword, but does not move; Mother exhales and releases Mahendra. Father ought not to be alone, Mahendra thinks and goes to him, but stops short when he sees the expression on the King’s head.

It is not surprise, or pain, or even fear: instead, only his mouth is open in sudden laughter, alight with unexpected victory. Mahendra can’t see what there is to be pleased about, but then he remembers the guilt that had driven him to the enemy camp just hours previous. How much worse should Father feel--and the King would know it, too, even in death. But even so little satisfaction Mahendra refuses to allow the Kin--or, no, his uncle Bhallaladeva. He does not deserve it. 

Mahendra goes to Father, and takes his hand. 

“‘ You are never at fault for the choices someone else makes’,” Mahendra quotes him solemnly. “If the King chose cruelty, than the mistake is his and his alone. The burden is his to bear, not yours.’” He gives Father his most serious expression. “You said that, Father, don't you remember? Wasn’t it true?”

Father does not smile, not quite, but his expression lightens. “So it was,” he agrees, because Father never lies, even if (as Mahendra knows now) he is wrong sometimes. He swings Mahendra up into his arms so that Mahendra can rest his head against Father’s shoulder, because now that the excitement is over, Mahendra is beginning to realize how very tired he had been underneath all the fright. And then Mother is there beside them, and Mahendra thinks to ask through a yawn: “Does that mean we can go home now?”

Now that Bhallaladeva is dead, Mahendra can’t see that there’s anyone left to protest, but Father only looks grim, and Mother no less so. At first Mahendra thinks it’s at his question, but then he looks at the scene that has formed around them:

All around them, soldiers--whether of Kuntala or Mahishmati--kneel, fists upon their hearts, but it’s not until the seniormost of the enemy soldiers speaks that Mahendra sees what that means. 

“All hail,” he proclaims, “the new King of Mahishmati.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The arrow wound that Bhalla inflicts on Sivagami being caused by the bow she offers him as one of the making-up-for-not-being-King gifts was first brought up on the Don't Call It Bollywood blog; I'm not sure if that was the intention in the movies, but I think it's a cool enough connection that I'm making it canon here.   
> * I have no idea if the Sudarshan Chakra was intended as the inspiration for Bhalla's war chariot, but, in keeping with my love for ironically pairing Bhalla with heroic figures, I couldn't resist.   
> * Fun fact: despite Amarendra's dramatic actions just prior to the "Death is...." speech in _Baahubali: the Beginning_ , it turns out pulling out an arrow is instead [a very very stupid idea for multiple reasons](https://allthingsliberty.com/2013/05/battle-wounds-never-pull-an-arrow-out-of-a-body/). And honestly, I think the movie actually backs this up, as Sivagami deteriorates in the first scene immediately after she pulls the arrow out of her back to defend baby Mahendra; I suggest that even in canon, she might not have lost her footing and drowned in the river if not so weakened by that particular action.


	17. Epilogue: Eight Months Later

Father never has to go far to find Mahendra.

As it turns out, while the palace of Mahishmati offers plenty of places to explore, this perch, just before the sacred flames, is Mahendra’s very favorite. It’s not the highest spot he can reach, or even the most exciting, but it shows him the view he loves best. By now Father must know that this is where he wanders when told to stay out of trouble, and truly Mahendra has been much better at doing just that in the last eight months, assuming one doesn’t count that accident with the ambassador from Muziris (which wasn’t Mahendra’s fault anyway, no matter what anyone claims) or that other unfortunate incident with the elephants and the honeycomb and Grandfather’s best spear (which was). But that notwithstanding, he has been very well behaved indeed.

Father is very good at taking Mahendra by surprise. Try as Mahendra might to stay vigilant, Father can tread so stealthily that Mahendra doesn’t hear it at all until Father has swooped him up. Father doesn’t do so often, though; he knows it still frightens Mahendra to be so startled. So when Mahendra hears those exaggeratedly loud footsteps, he knows to turn around and scramble to Father.

“Is it over?” he wants to know, bouncing up and down on his toes; he feels he been waiting for this moment forever.

Father smiles. “Almost.”

*

Life in the palace is not so very different in some ways.

Father still hems and haws over machinery, but mostly over models rather than the actual thing. Mahendra suspects Father misses it sometimes, the freedom to go and watch his creations at work whenever he wanted; the ability to mend and tinker with it at a moment’s notice. That said, being King means Father gets to arrange for the creation of even more of his machines all around the country,  which Mahendra gathers is what he always wanted. So that is all right.

And otherwise, Father can usually be found in one of his meetings. These are, if Mahendra is honest, not so different from the old ones Father used to conduct when settling arguments: although a long, long, long time ago, Mahendra gathers that the Kings and Queens would only sit in that grand throne room, neither Mother nor Father nor Mahendra cares for it much. So instead, Father’s meetings, and Mother’s when she is feeling well enough to join him, are usually held in one of the smaller council rooms, where Mahendra is free to come in as he pleases and crawl into Father’s lap, letting the sound of his voice lull him to sleep.

He does not always doze, though: sometimes Father’s meetings, boring as they may be, are still useful for seeing old friends. Father, when they had first tried to make him King, had pointed out that Grandmother had still banished him from the throne, and then, when everyone had argued, had decreed that he would rule only along a council made up of a representative from each village in the kingdom. Mahendra thinks that makes perfect sense, for who better to know the problems of the people? But it seems to be rather more complicated than that, though no one complains too much for fear that Father might leave them if they do. But what that means for Mahendra is that he can still see Hari more often than not, and those guests who Hari invites.

There are others, too, that he meets there. Lord Shashank, for instance, who, in his grief, has elected only to become an envoy from Kuntala. He had wanted to leave the kingdom altogether, and perhaps even the world, Mahendra remembers, shuddering a little when thinking of the terrible look on Lord Shashank’s face; but then Uncle Kumar had insisted otherwise.

“Years you’ve given us all unwanted advice,” Uncle Kumar exclaimed. “Will you stop now, and leave me alone?”

Mahendra thought he had never looked so much like a King before, utterly implacable, and Lord Shashank must have felt the same way, because he remained with the court and travels to Mahishmati every so often. He wears much less perfume, which is nice, and brings praise and presents on the part of Aunt Sumitra and Mahendra’s uncles, which is even nicer.

He smiles at Mahendra whenever he catches Mahendra’s eyes: sadder than before, but more sincere.

*

Some things about life in the palace, on the other hand, are very strange.

For one thing, the size of it; it echoes rather, which is fun during the day when Mahendra wants to race down the corridors whooping, but rather unpleasant in the middle of the night. This more than anything else ensures he does as he is told and stays in his little bedroom to the side of Mother and Father’s.

Also, there are a tremendous number of empty rooms, which seems awfully impractical to Mahendra. He wishes Aunt Varuni had taken them up on the offer to stay, but she had refused, hefting baby Bhadra more securely on her hip. She had no wish to be caught up in any more trouble, she said, and what was more, she had no taste for charity.

“Not charity,” Mother corrected. “Companionship. A family for your boy.”

Aunt Varuni had smiled faintly at that. “I think,” she said, “that Bhadra and I shall do better on our own, far away from ah, family--but your concern is appreciated.”

So Mother and Mahendra had stood on the steps and waved good-bye as a palanquin took her and Bhadra back to the land from which she’d come. Grandmother’s husband had left that same day, insisting to remain with his own blood. Mahendra, puzzled, had wondered loudly if Father wasn’t his own blood, too, since that is what Bhallaladeva had said; but Mother had only shushed him. He does not think he will miss his great-uncle much, as even so short an acquaintance had not made him care for the man, but it does make for an awfully lonely palace.

Mother and Father, when he’d pointed this out, assure him he need not worry on that account; and at first he assumes that was only because they had invited Avantika to come and stay for a few weeks after the new year, until—

But that happens later.

*

Moreover, everyone in the palace seems to make a fuss about the silliest things!

The clothes they mean for a prince to wear are bad enough, though Mother surreptitiously alters them so they’re not as uncomfortable as they could be.  But then people try to teach him about deportment and protocol, and Mahendra’s eyes only glaze over. It is much simpler when Mother tells him to keep his head up and be proud to be a son of Mahishmati, and when Father tells him to be kind to everyone else in every way possible. That, he thinks, he can do.

But he is not impressed with the standards of those in the palace to begin with. For example, there is quite a lot of commotion over the fact that Father does not have a coronation portrait painted at once, though it seems quite like the last thing anyone ought to worry about.

“But Your Majesty!” protest Father’s advisors. “It is meant to be sent to allies and enemies alike, to warn of our new King’s strength! How, without your cooperation, are we to ensure that it reaches them in time?”

Father only chuckles. “Strength doesn’t need to be displayed,” he points out. “If there are those who are still unconvinced of Mahishmati’s power, a painting will do nothing to change their minds.”

Mahendra agrees with him privately, but he knows there will be no getting around it. Father has already taken him to go see the portrait gallery, filled with images of men clutching weapons and books and maps. They peered together at the picture of Father’s own father, who looked as much like him as does Mahendra, and then at that of Bhallaladeva brandishing his mace beside it.

“Does it have to stay here?”

“Yes,” said Father, voice level. “He did rule Mahishmati as crowned King for years, Mahendra. That cannot change.”

“Well--then--shouldn’t Grandmother’s portrait be there, as well? She ruled Mahishmati, too!”

“Yes,” said Father, in rather a different tone. “She did.”

So then the royal painters are kept busy with a commission to create a portrait of Grandmother from memory, so that they haven’t time to complain any more. But still Father doesn’t have any painting of himself made, which rather puzzles Mahendra, until he eavesdrops perhaps a little and discovers that the reason everyone is so shocked is that Father intends to have himself captured alongside his family, rather than any other representation of his power. Mahendra approves. That is clearly far wiser than putting faith in weapons: those might break and bend and go flying off at exactly the wrong moment, but family has a way of being there when one needs them most.

But even that doesn’t explain why he’s waiting so long, at least until Mother wants to know how he might feel about having another brother or sister.

Oh, thinks Mahendra, and: that explains a great deal; but out loud he only announces: “I told Uncle Kumar we weren’t to be rewarded with a princess for saving Kuntala!”

Mother laughs.

*

Which brings them to now, where Mahendra and Father sit on the balcony, letting their legs swing back and forth over the edge. “Is it a boy or a girl?” Mahendra asks, after he’s ascertained that Mother is well, but sleeping, and the baby, too.

“A girl,” replies Father, and philosophically, Mahendra reflects that one can’t have everything in life. But a sister might not be so bad: he can show her the best trees to climb, and teach her how to mind the goats that came with them to the palace, and warn her where to hide whenever she gets into trouble.

“Does she have a name?”

“Sivagami,” says Father, so slowly it seems he’s testing it out on his tongue. Mahendra understands his uncertainty; that name seems rather unwieldy.

“Sivvu,” he decides instead. “Sivvu is a better name for a sister.”

Father ruffles his hair, and Mahendra flushes with pleasure. “Sivvu it shall be.”

They turn to look as one at the village that can be seen in the distance, the village Mahendra loves and misses even now, the village where Seshu and Charu and all their friends wait to hear the results of Mother’s labor. Aunt Lakshmi will have prepared a celebratory feast by now, the thought of which already makes Mahendra’s mouth water; and Seshu gotten out the great drum he plays when particularly pleased; and Gopu excited enough, even before Mahendra can summon him to the palace to come and see Mahendra’s elephants!

Father must be thinking the same thing, because he lifts Mahendra up until he’s sitting on his shoulders, just like he used to before.

“Let’s go home, Father,” breathes Mahendra, and smiles into the setting sun.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before all else, I have to admit that if you had told me eleven months ago that this silly story would find such support and love, I would not have believed it. (Of course, if you had told me that it would end up 50 + K words, and take _quite_ so long to finish, I might have run screaming in the opposite direction, so that might be just as well!)  
>  A heartfelt thanks to JalapenoLobster/perspicaciouslynamed for offering the obvious solution when I described the plot I’d come up with which (at that time) I didn’t know how to resolve; to Maya and Ratna, for gently (and not-so-gently, as I needed!) encouraging me to update at a reasonable rate and giving me feedback when I needed it most; and of course, to all of you wonderful readers who leave such brilliant comments and kudos! Without you, this story would have awkwardly petered out somewhere around Chapter 2 or 3; and so, a thousand thanks!  
> To everyone who is understandably sad to see this story end—this is by no means the end of the Nidhana universe! Of course there are so many missing scenes and loose ends to tie up—and does anyone really think our Mahendra and his family can stay out of trouble for long? I anticipate answering as many prompts as ever about this universe, and continuing to write more!  
> Of course, if you have any questions about why a certain plot point ended up the way it did, or whether a twist was planned from the start, feel free to ask away on my Tumblr! (https://avani008.tumblr.com/ask), open to all!


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